


If You're The Storm, Then I'm The Chaser

by LiveLaughLoveLarry



Category: Ed Sheeran (Musician), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exes, Exes to Lovers, Guilt, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Louis broke Harry and Harry broke himself and Xander broke Harry and Louis just wants to fix him, M/M, Post-Break Up, Rebound, Self-Esteem Issues, Songfic, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 21:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17836715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveLaughLoveLarry/pseuds/LiveLaughLoveLarry
Summary: An AU based on Ed Sheeran's song "New Man"Louis is back in town for the first time since he and Harry broke up six months ago. He's not sure what would hurt more, if Harry has moved on or if he's still as torn up as Louis is. He never even considered that Harry would be acting like a completely different person. And maybe he really is as happy as he keeps insisting, but Louis really doesn't think so.~*~*~*~“Who are you and what have you done to Harry Styles?”It sounds corny as fuck, and Harry bursts into laughter, but Louis means it. He barely recognizes Harry, every word out of his mouth sounding like it belongs to someone else. This isn’t him. This isn’t him at all.“I’m the same person,” Harry says with a shrug. “I just get what I want now. And tonight, that means you.”"This just isn't you,” Louis says, shaking his head. “This isn’t the Harry I lo – the Harry I knew at all.”Harry stares at him for a long moment. “Maybe you didn’t know me as well as you thought,” he says at last.





	If You're The Storm, Then I'm The Chaser

**Author's Note:**

> This story does portray abusive behavior from Harry's new partner. Mostly implied rather than outright (the character only appears in one scene), mostly emotional abuse, with an instance of physical abuse occurring out of scene. There is also some description of a diet/exercise fixation -- probably not quite an eating disorder, but similar enough patterns that I would feel remiss not to mention it. This is not to minimize anyone’s experience or imply that it is any less real or impactful - different people are differently affected by different things, but those experiences are valid regardless and what matters is your safety. Please take care of yourself if this may be triggering for you. Or if you have any questions or want more specifics, feel free to message me [here](http://loveislarryislove.tumblr.com) and I'll be happy to help. Also please let me know if there’s anything I should change or add in the tags or notes, or if you have any concerns with my depiction - this is outside my normal wheelhouse and I am open to learning how to do it better and more responsibly.
> 
> Huge thanks to the amazing [suddenclarityharry](http://suddenclarityharry.tumblr.com) for putting on this fest and for her undying patience with me while I worked on this. You're a gem.
> 
> Title is adapted from the song "Danger, Danger" by Kira Isabella (written by Maren Morris)

The thud of Louis’ bag dropping onto the floor echoes hollowly through the empty hallways. It’s strange to be back, he thinks. To be standing in the entryway of his own apartment, and yet to feel somehow in such unfamiliar territory, like a visitor in his own home.

To be fair, he’s been away longer than he lived here.

But it’s not that, he knows. It’s not that he’s unused to the placement of the light switch or the finicky nature of the blinds. It’s that he’s unused to the quiet, to the lack of baked goods stacked on the counter, to air unadorned by scented candles.

It’s not the apartment that’s unfamiliar. It’s being in it alone.

He kicks off his shoes, not bothering to line them up on the mat, and drags his bags into the bedroom. He should unpack, should at least make a start before he goes to meet up with the guys. He should empty his suitcases and fill the hangers and drawers with pieces of himself and his life again. He should.

And he will. Eventually. But for the moment, he collapses on the enormous king bed – too large for him, really. The sheets are neatly tucked in, the pillows arranged with a precision he could never be bothered with. He smiles, recognizing Lottie’s careful hand.

Letting her and Tommy stay here had been a fortuitous last-minute change – one of the only good things that had come out of that nightmare. They’d been looking for a place together, he’d had one available – it just made sense. And he likes Tommy. He’s always been protective when it comes to Lottie, but Tommy seems good for her. They seem like a solid match.

Of course, he’s been wrong about such things before.

He sighs, rolling over and trying to push the thought away. That’s the past, he tells himself. A life he barely recognizes anymore, not now that so much has changed – leaving his job, starting his own company, travelling abroad.

As he starts to unpack, he tries to convince himself he doesn’t miss it.

~*~

“He won’t be here.”

Louis jumps, and Niall catches him before he can fall off his stool. Zayn and Liam glance over in concern, and he waves them off. He really doesn’t understand the rationale between putting such high seats in a place full of drunk people.

“Sorry,” Niall says as Louis resettles in his seat. They’re gathered in the bar nearest _Generation_ headquarters and it feels just like any other Tuesday night, the familiarity and nostalgia almost overwhelming. “You just kept checking the door.”

“I didn’t even realize,” Louis says. A thought occurs to him. “You didn’t tell him I was coming, did you?”

“No,” Niall says immediately. “No, nothing like that. He just… doesn’t come anymore.”

Louis doesn’t know what that means.

“Were you hoping to see him?” Liam asks softly. “Or hoping you wouldn’t?”

“I don’t want to see him,” Louis says immediately. It’s half true, and he can’t decide which half of himself he loathes more. “With the way things ended… it’s probably best if we steer clear of one another.”

Niall winces, and Zayn and Liam exchange concerned glances. “Are you okay?” Zayn asks after a moment.

Louis laughs. “Been better,” he says. “But I’m managing. It’s just. Weird. Being back.” He gives them a crooked smile that’s almost real. “I missed you guys, though.”

“Aww!” Niall grins, wrapping his arms around Louis in a bear hug. “We missed you too.”

Liam and Zayn pile on as well, and Louis can’t help laughing as he holds onto the bar for dear life, the slightly inebriated group hug not the most stable of things to be occurring on a rickety bar stool.

“It’s been quiet without you,” Liam says as they pull away. “It’ll be good to have you back, even if you’re not working with us anymore.”

“You’re always welcome for bar night,” Niall adds. “You’re the only one who even tries to keep up with me.”

Louis smiles. “I’d like that,” he says. “Just, like. I won’t be offended if you want to hang out with him sometimes too. I just won’t join.”

There’s an awkward three-way exchange of glances that Louis can’t quite interpret. “What?” he asks.

“We just… haven’t seen as much of him lately,” Liam says at last. “He hasn’t been around much.”

“You _work_ with him,” Louis says, confused. “How much can he not be around?” Another awkward pause and exchange of glances. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Look,” Niall says at last. “We can sit here and talk about your ex and all feel sad and slightly uncomfortable, or we can talk about literally anything else and not. We could even chug our drinks and go play drunk darts.”

“Darts is a stupid game,” Louis complains. “I suck at it even when I’m sober.”

“Exactly. It’s twice as funny when you can barely see the target.”

Louis can’t help laughing at that. “All right,” he says. “I’m sold. But you’re buying the next round.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Niall says, shaking his head. “I accept.”

Louis misses the dartboard almost as often as he hits it, and the others tease him mercilessly, but Niall’s right about one thing – it is hilarious. Which doesn’t help his aim either, as he’s laughing too hard to hold his hand steady. Fortunately the others are also abysmal, and eventually the game is abandoned, unfinished. As they troop out of the bar and into the twisting Boston streets, shouted goodbyes echoing between the buildings, Zayn catches Louis by a belt loop.

“Wanna come back to mine?” he murmurs, his eyes dark as he gives Louis a crooked smile.

It’s been a while since they’ve done this, but it would take far longer for Louis to forget Zayn’s substantial… talents. They’ve fooled around off and on since a few weeks after they met – never anything serious, a silent agreement that they weren’t compatible romantically. But in bed – in bed they were electric.

Louis is more than a little bit drunk, and he craves the simplicity, the release, the distraction he knows Zayn will give him. He slips his hand into Zayn’s back pocket, giving a light squeeze. “Yes please,” he murmurs.

~*~

“You should talk to Harry.”

Louis drops his head back against the pillows, sighing. “Can you please not bring my ex up while we’re naked?” he says. He doesn’t want to think about Harry _ever_ , but _especially_ not right now.

“Sorry,” Zayn says, not sounding sorry at all. “I just… think it might be a good idea.”

“If I suck your cock will you shut up?”

“No.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s your job.” Zayn’s lips latch onto Louis’ throat and he arches up of the bed with a gasp. It’s only been a few minutes since the last round but Louis is young and he’s horny and he’s definitely up for another.

But Zayn pulls back, his beautiful face traced with lines as he frowns. “I really think you should talk to him,” he says. “He’s… we’re all worried. No one wants to say so, but we are.”

Louis feels the energy seep out of him like meltwater. “What?”

“He quit,” Zayn says. “Maybe two months after you left? He met this dude, Xander, and then he left, and he’s barely spoken to anyone since. And he just… doesn’t seem the same.”

_Louis_ isn’t the same since he left. Everything feels hollow, just passing time, trying to fill a hole that’s bigger than it has any right to be.

But that’s not the point.

“What do you mean?” Louis asks, biting back a million questions he’s not sure he wants to know the answers to and that aren’t his business anymore anyways.

Zayn shrugs. “I don’t know. I haven’t really spoken to him since, which is part of what’s weird. He just… it was like he vanished. One day he was there and the next we’re being told he’s quit and we’ll have a new coworker in a few days. He stopped answering texts, and when I see him around town he never so much as says hello. It’s like he’s a stranger.”

That… doesn’t sound like Harry. That doesn’t sound like Harry at all. The Harry that Louis knew was always sending random photos and memes that he thought they might like, and took every chance meeting as an opportunity to have a heart-to-heart conversation even if they’d seen each other just the previous day. The Harry that Louis knew loved working for _Generation_ , an up-and-coming political publication focused on youth engagement and youth activism, and wanted nothing more than to keep doing what he loved and making a difference.

The Harry that Louis knew had been in love, had been devastated when they broke up, had said he couldn’t imagine a life with anyone else.

“I don’t think he’d want to see me,” Louis says. And he doesn’t want to see Harry. He doesn’t.

“I don’t know that he would either,” Zayn says. “But you might be the only one who can… I don’t know. Reach him, I guess.”

“He looks happy enough,” Louis says. “Maybe I should just leave him alone. It’s not my business.”

“Looks happy?” Zayn says. “Where have you seen him?”

Fuck. “I, um. Might have looked at his Instagram. A few times.”

“Louis.”

“I know.” Louis closes his eyes, but a few tears leak out at the corners. “I just. I miss him. Sometimes.”

Zayn lets out a soft breath. “He meant a lot to you, didn’t he?”

More traitorous tears spill past Louis’ eyelashes, sliding down his face and trickling into his ears. “Yeah.”

Zayn wipes the moisture from Louis’ cheeks, brushing it back into Louis’ hair. “It was only a few months,” Zayn says. “But a lot can happen in a few months.”

Louis hears no judgment in Zayn’s words, no you-shouldn’t-be-this-attached-so-fast or why-aren’t-you-over-him-yet. He just hears soft acceptance, and it catches in his throat. “We were talking about”– forever –“moving in together,” he whispers. “Before – you know.”

Zayn’s quiet intake of breath is loud in the silence of the room. “Sounds pretty serious.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

“Look,” Zayn says at last. “I’m not asking for – I didn’t realize how much had gone down. If you don’t feel up to it, I’m not going to judge you. But I think it might help him.”

“What might help him?” Louis asks. “If he’s feeling anything like me, seeing me might be the worst thing I could do. And if he’s not-” He has to swallow hard before he can continue. “If he’s not, then it hardly matters what I do.”

Zayn shrugs. “You know him best,” he says softly. “I’ll defer to your judgment. I just thought you should know.”

Louis is glad to know and he wishes he didn’t know. He craves every stinging scrap of information, like inhaling cigarette smoke on a winter’s night. He quit smoking a month into dating Harry. It’s taken everything in him not to pick it back up since they broke up. It’s not because he knows Harry wouldn’t like it (it might be partly because Harry wouldn’t like it). It’s just one of the last things he has left of him, one of the only gifts Harry gave him that still feels like a good memory.

“Can we just – not talk about this?” he says at last. “I came here looking for orgasms, not emotions.”

Zayn laughs. “Fair enough,” he says, pressing velvet lips to a spot just below Louis’ navel. “Least I can do.”

He kisses his way down Louis’ stomach, licks along Louis’ hipbones, and Louis is already squirming with the anticipation. Zayn’s strong hands press into his thighs, pinning him to the mattress, and Louis reaches to touch himself, just for a second, just to take off the edge.

“Stay still,” Zayn says, his voice firm and commanding. He slaps Louis’ hand away and Louis groans as another wave of pleasure tightens in his belly. And Zayn hasn’t even _touched_ him yet.

“Please,” he pants, his toes curling and flexing with the effort of not moving. “Please, Zayn, I – ah!”

He feels wet heat cover him as Zayn takes him down and down and down. His eyes close and his head tilts back as helpless noises catch in his throat, spiraling around the room. Zayn has always been fantastic at giving head; Louis has told him more than once he should be a prostitute instead of a graphic designer, he’d make a killing.

But as Louis lies there, chest heaving, back arching, the image that feels imprinted onto the backs of his eyelids is that of Harry’s face. Harry on his knees for Louis, Harry’s mouth stretched tight around Louis’ cock, Harry’s big innocent eyes gleaming up at him so deliciously filthy.

Louis comes harder than he has in months, biting his tongue until it bleeds to keep Harry’s name from jumping off the tip of it.

~*~

It’s strange, settling back in. Some things are familiar – he grew up here after all, and things don’t change that much in six months. He still walks down the same streets, sees the same people in the elevator. The work is more or less the same as it was in San Francisco, and he’d had a couple weeks between when he’d left _Generation_ and when he’d gotten the assignment there. It’s not that different, not really.

And yet, it feels like a whole new world, foreign and confusing. When he goes out for walks he sometimes finds his feet taking him over the familiar route to _Generation_ – once he almost makes it onto the subway before he stops himself. More than once he turns to point something out to someone who isn’t beside him. His apartment feels too big and too clean, the walls barren and white.

He locks himself in his office and focuses on his work. There’s certainly lots to do, plenty of tasks that require his entire focus, that don’t leave even a speck of attention to turn to… other things.

A week and a half after his return, he’s pulled from a particularly technical piece of coding by a pounding on the door. He pulls his earbuds out and stands, stretching – a glance at the clock tells him it’s nearly 8pm, and a low grumble in his stomach reminds him that he’s forgotten to eat dinner again.

The pounding comes again. He makes his way down the hall, calling out, “Hang on a minute!” The pounding doesn’t stop.

He flings open the door to find a mildly exasperated Lottie standing outside, and can only watch as she breezes past him into the apartment as though she owns the place – which, to be fair, she kind of used to.

“It’s just as I thought,” she says as she surveys the room, hands on her hips. “Honestly, Louis, have you ever heard of work-life balance? Or, you know, life?”

Louis looks around. “What are you talking about?”

Lottie kicks a takeout container on the floor beside the overfull garbage can, peers into the fridge that’s still mostly empty except for condiments and a carton of milk, looks pointedly at a suitcase that still hasn’t made it out of the entryway.

“How much of the past week and a half have you spent working?” she asks.

Louis shifts. “A lot.”

“And how much have you spent having _fun?_ ”

“Some.”

“Really?”

Louis shrugs. He’s watched more TV than is probably good for him, but that’s less fun and more filler. He’s met up with the guys for drinks twice, gone for a few walks, but other than that, he’s mostly stayed in and worked. It’s easier that way. Gives him less to think about.

“That’s what I thought,” Lottie said. “Which is why we’re going out tonight. The Barking Frog. Just you, me, and the music. And the alcohol.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Why there?”

“Because you’ve never been,” she says. “And also because if I let you pick, you’d dither for an hour.”

It’s probably true.

“Fine,” he sighs, heading for his bedroom to find a less ratty t-shirt. “Though we might have to make a stop first.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere that sells food,” Louis says. “I haven’t actually eaten since lunch.”

Lottie glares at him in indignant concern. “Don’t make me sic Mom on you,” she says. “Because I will if you don’t start taking better care of yourself.”

She will, too. Louis believes her completely.

“I’ll try,” he says. “It’s just… still weird.”

Lottie softens, the forceful vigor suddenly fading from her voice. “I know, hon,” she says. “I know. But you’ve got to keep moving. Keep living. Keep finding the joy in life.”

“I find joy in my work.”

Lottie rolls her eyes, the softness gone. “Okay, Mr. Big-Shot-Web-Developer, but if you do nothing but work you’ll just be an extremely wealthy mushroom. And I don’t like mushrooms.”

“I do.”

“Well, good for you. Come on. You can get a burrito on the way.”

Louis knows better than to argue.

~*~

It is nice. He’ll give her that. There’s something so freeing about just fading into the crowd, a hundred anonymous faces smiling and laughing and dancing. He lets the music move through him, lets himself move with it, head tipped back and eyes closed. He lets the moment fill him, lets everything else fade away into the distance. There’s no future, no past, no pain, just the freedom of the eternal now.

He’s not sure how many drinks Lottie buys him, or how many he buys her, but he doesn’t care. Slowly, however, as songs full of deep, vibrating bass bleed into songs full of echoing electronica, the only way he has to measure the passage of time, he starts to notice the effects of the drinks in another way.

“Be right back,” he shouts to Lottie. “Gonna find a restroom.” She nods, not breaking her rhythm for a moment, and he slowly winds his way to the edge of the pulsating crowd. It takes a moment for him to find the signs, pointing to a dingy hallway behind the bar.

As he makes his way down the hall, he keeps his eyes on the ground. A few couples are pressed against the walls, and he doesn’t particularly care to know which base they’re on at the moment. But as he reaches the door to the men’s room, he hears someone speak.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” the familiar voice rumbles, and then breaks into a laugh Louis would know anywhere.

He turns in spite of himself, and there, large as life, is Harry, back pressed to the wall as he grins up at the tall boy whose arms are caging him there.

“Harry?”

He doesn’t mean to say it, but Harry’s name has never been far from his lips since the first time he jerked off thinking of him. Which was about two weeks after they met.

Harry’s head jerks, his eyes meeting Louis’. For a moment they’re filled with a maelstrom of emotions – surprise, pleasure, pain, lust, confusion. Then, like a door slamming shut or a broom sweeping them away, they’re suddenly gone, replaced by a tipsy glaze and a cocky smile.

“Louis!” he says. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“I could say the same,” Louis says, his lips numb. “What are you doing?”

It takes him a moment to realize it, his attention always focused on Harry first, but the boy next to him is a total stranger, with a shock of messy blond hair that falls into his face. He’s not Xander.

The boy takes a step back. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Is this your boyfriend or something? Because I’m not about that.”

Harry laughs. “No, Louis and I aren’t together,” he says. “Can’t cage him; he’s a free bird.”

“You’re not, though,” Louis says. “Where’s Xander?”

Harry waves a hand airily. “Don’t know, don’t care,” he says. “We’ll stumble home sometime in the early morning and have great sex and then sleep til noon. After all, it’s the weekend.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“What are you, my secretary?” Harry rolls his eyes.

The boy takes another step back. “Look,” he says. “You’re hot, but this is not cool. Cheating on someone is garbage, and I also don’t appreciate you flirting with another guy while I’m literally standing right here. Find someone else to fuck around. I’m out.”

Harry watches the boy walk away, pouting. As he disappears back into the throbbing crowd of the club, Harry sighs. “Look what you did,” he says. “Another five minutes and I probably would have had him on his knees.” He turns his gaze to Louis, and Louis momentarily forgets how to breathe. “I suppose you’d make a pretty good replacement, though.”

Louis feels frozen in place. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he chokes out.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a spoilsport,” he says. “It’ll be fun. Or if you don’t want to blow me, I’ll blow you instead.” He drops to his knees in a single fluid motion, shuffling towards Louis with a gleam in his eye that’s almost predatory, and Louis is petrified both literally and figuratively. He can’t move, he can’t speak, he can’t _breathe_ , he can only watch as Harry moves towards him, so much like he remembers and yet so different.

It’s not until Harry’s fingers touch his waistband that he finally snaps out of it, stumbling backwards and hitting the wall hard. “No,” he says. “No, stop this, what the fuck Harry? You have a boyfriend!”

Harry shrugs. “What about it?” he says. “I like to have a little fun on the side; is that illegal? It’s not like we’re married or any of that shit.”

“Does Xander know?”

Harry laughs. “Not as such,” he says. “Just like I don’t _officially_ know about the string of people _he_ sleeps with on the side.”

“Who are you and what have you done to Harry Styles?”

It sounds corny as all fuck, and Harry bursts into laughter, but Louis means it. He barely recognizes Harry, every word out of his mouth sounding like it belongs to someone else. This isn’t him. This isn’t him at all.

“I’m the same person,” Harry says with a shrug. “I just get what I want now. And tonight, that means you.”

He reaches for Louis’ zipper again, and Louis takes another step back. “This isn’t you,” he insists. “What happened to you?”

“This _is_ me,” Harry says.

“No, it’s not,” Louis says, shaking his head. “This isn’t the Harry I lo – the Harry I knew at all.”

Harry stares at him for a long moment. “Maybe you didn’t know me as well as you thought,” he says at last.

Louis’ heart is pounding in his ears. He doesn’t want to believe that, can’t believe that, it’s not _true_. It can’t be true.

_You were only together a few months,_ a creeping voice whispers in his mind. _What makes you think you know him at all?_

He does. He knows he does. Or did. They’d been coworkers, for pity’s sake; they’d been _friends_. He knew Harry, he swears he did.

But maybe that Harry is gone, no more than a memory, replaced by the man still kneeling in front of him.

And maybe that’s Louis’ fault.

It’s that thought that finally galvanizes him into motion. He steps away from the wall, moving carefully around Harry. “I knew you,” he tells him. “I knew you, and you know it. And I don’t know what’s happened to you, and I’m sorry for that. But I’m not going to have any part of this.”

He motions to the darkened hallway, suspiciously damp patches along the walls and floor and half the lights burned out. Something flickers in Harry’s eyes, or maybe it’s just another dying bulb, and Louis sighs. “You deserve better,” he says. “You deserve to be happy. I hope you find that.”

He turns and walks away, clinging to every scrap of willpower to keep from turning back around. It’s only once he’s immersed in the crowd again that he realizes he never made it into the restroom. The thought of returning to that hallway makes his stomach flip.

He’d rather piss his pants, he decides. Hopefully he can persuade Lottie to leave before that option becomes a necessity.

~*~

Louis can’t sleep. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, the blankets a tangled mess around him. He’s been tossing and turning for what seems like forever, but his mind refuses to quiet down. He lifts his head to check the clock, which blinks an unsympathetic 4:19am. He lets his head fall back with a groan. 4:19. It’s been more than three hours, and his alarm will go off in less than four.

He just can’t stop thinking about it, is the thing. It’s been days, but he can’t get Harry off his mind – the way he looked, the way he sounded, the way he acted. It felt like talking to a stranger, not someone Louis had spent weeks learning about in every way it was possible to know. He knows how Harry takes his tea, knows the way he never answers even the simplest questions without taking a moment to think, knows the breathless, wordless noises he makes right before he comes. He knows about Harry’s family, about his school, about his dreams. Or at least, he thought he did.

That’s what he keeps coming back to. He thought he knew Harry, but the man kneeling in front of him in the back hallway of a club was no one Louis recognized. Which means either Harry has changed completely, or Louis never really knew him at all.

He’s not sure which would hurt more – knowing that the Harry he loved was gone, or knowing that he’d never even existed in the first place.

He looks at the clock again. 4:31. He sighs, pushing the blankets aside, and drags himself out of bed. Sleep is a lost cause. Maybe some exercise will tire him out, or at least shut off his mind for a little while.

As he walks the six blocks to the gym, his bag slung over his shoulder, he chuckles. One good thing about the gym: there’s absolutely no chance of running into Harry. They might frequent the same clubs or the same supermarkets, but Harry has never been one for early morning workouts – or really, working out at all.

Then again, neither was Louis, until the mindlessness of exhaustion and oxygen deprivation suddenly seemed like the sweetest gift the world could offer. If he can’t think, he can’t remember. He can’t wonder about what might have been, can’t second guess everything he did. He can’t do anything but run.

As soon as he’s changed, Louis makes a beeline for the treadmills. There’s hardly anyone here this early in the morning, and he sets himself up on one with a view over the city, facing east through the floor-to-ceiling windows that seem to be an essential part of most gyms. He doesn’t love the idea of being on display to the world, but he pushes the thought aside. He presses the buttons to bring the treadmill to life, cranking up the speed and the elevation, and loses himself in the steady beat of his feet against the belt.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._ His feet and his heartbeat seem to pound in sync. _Thud. Thud. Thud._ He’s dimly aware of motion around him, people arriving at the gym, people leaving after finishing their workouts. None of it concerns him. _Thud. Thud. Thud._ The sky fades from the dull gray of light pollution to the soft gray of almost to a tapestry of sunrise color. The empty streets start to fill with people, bustling on their way to work. Louis takes it in and keeps running. _Thud. Thud. Thud._

“You always were an endurance man.”

The voice cuts through his fog and he stumbles, almost falling off the machine. He dials the intensity back as he looks to his right to see the very reason for his presence in the gym.

Harry fucking Styles, jogging along at a leisurely pace on the machine beside him.

“What are you doing here?” he manages to ask, forcing his eyes back to the window. Outside, the skyline is steady, the buildings unmoving and unmoved as the sky behind it ripples with red and gold.

“Same as you, I expect,” Harry says. “I didn’t know you were a runner.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Over two hours is a pretty long run.”

Louis hadn’t even noticed the time passing. He curses internally – he’s going to be sore for days.

“I’ve had some time on my hands,” he says, switching off the machine and stepping off. “Running was – helpful, sometimes. Enjoy your workout.”

He turns and walks towards the locker room, grateful he can blame his ragged breathing and racing heart on the run.

The feeling of hot water on his aching muscles is a relief he didn’t know he needed, and he almost moans with it. He rubs his calves gingerly, trying to smooth away some of the tension and stiffness. Thank God his job doesn’t require standing up for very long. Or at all. The way his feet are throbbing, he might well wind up having to get an Uber home.

He lets the water wash over him, soothing, steady. It’s almost too hot, turning his skin an angry pink, but he welcomes it. It’s an easy pain, at least, better than the bone deep ache that usually fills him. This pain makes him feel alive.

When he finally turns the water off, the outside air feels cold and unforgiving. Louis quickly dries himself off, wrapping the towel tightly around his waist. He steps out of the stall, tucking his dirty clothes under his arm, and nearly walks into someone, wet feet slipping on the tile floor.

“I’ve been waiting for ages,” Harry says, seemingly oblivious to Louis’ near wipeout. “Thought about joining you, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react to that.”

“I – poorly,” Louis manages to say. “I would have reacted poorly. What the fuck, Harry? What are you doing?”

Harry shrugs. “You’re hot and steamy,” he says, his voice dipping low into an almost liquid purr. “I’m hot and sweaty. Seems like the perfect combination to get hot and bothered.”

Louis is weak, and he hates himself for it, but he can feel Harry’s words going straight to his dick. He’s grateful for the layers of the towel, yielding him a shadow of modesty for the moment, but he knows that won’t be enough for long.

Also he wouldn’t put it past Harry to tug the towel off, the way he’s been acting.

He looks around the room hoping to find some anonymous ally to use as a shield, but it’s empty. He takes the next best option, squeezing past and heading for his locker. He focuses on his lock, spinning the dial with trembling fingers.

“Stop it,” he says. “Anyone could walk in.”

“I know,” Harry says, and Louis can almost hear the grin in his voice. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

He should probably have expected that. Harry always did have a bit of a thing for exhibitionism. 

“I told you last week,” Louis says, finally opening the lock on the third try. “I’m not doing this. I’m not like that, Harry. I’m not that guy. I won’t be.”

Harry sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Be that way.”

Louis exhales a relieved breath, pulling out his things. He runs a brush through his tangled hair, then tugs a T-shirt on. He glances behind him before dropping the towel and suddenly freezes, his mouth dry.

Harry is standing completely naked in the middle of the room, his clothes discarded on a bench. He sees Louis look and a grin spreads slowly over his face. “Like what you see?” he says, gesturing down at himself.

Louis swallows hard. He’s still beautiful, always so beautiful. His soft edges are now more angular, muscles stretched tight under his skin, but it looks good on him. Black lines of ink trace his arms and torso, black hair stretches down from his navel, and his cock is still the prettiest cock Louis has ever laid eyes on.

He shouldn’t be looking at this. He shouldn’t. But he can’t tear his eyes away as Harry’s long fingers wrap around his cock and pump it – once, twice, three times. Harry tips his head back and lets out a breathy moan, and Louis can’t _breathe_ there’s no oxygen here he can’t he can’t he can’t-

Suddenly the changeroom door swings open, laughter spilling into the room as two young men walk in. Louis quickly turns back to his locker, pretending to be looking at something on his phone though his eyes refuse to focus.

“Gross, dude!” one of the men says as he spots Harry. “Put some fucking pants on.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Harry chuckles. “Sorry,” he says. “I guess I’m just secure in my own masculinity.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well,” Harry says, his voice bordering on taunting. “It means I don’t need anyone else’s opinion to know what kind of man I am.” Another chuckle. “I feel bad for people who do. It sounds so exhausting.”

“Why you little-”

“Stop it,” Louis says. He’s tired. His head hurts, his legs hurt, his heart hurts. “Just knock it off, both of you. Go fucking shower and stop trying to pick fights.”

He slams his locker shut and flops down on the bench, steadfastly refusing to look up from his phone until all three have disappeared into shower cubicles. Only then does he finally drop his towel, pulling on boxers and jeans as quickly as the wet floor will allow. He rubs the towel through his hair, then sits again to put on his socks and shoes.

A traitorous part of him wants to talk to Harry, wants to wait for him to emerge, or even hold a conversation through the shower curtain.

He does his best to throttle that part as he grabs his things and walks out.

~*~

Louis is considering reverting to a nocturnal lifestyle. Or possibly becoming a hermit. Like, sure, it’s not that big of a neighborhood, but honestly, how does this keep happening? In a city of hundreds of thousands, there is only one person he does not want to see, and yet, like a pair of asteroids drawn into gravitational spiral, pulled inexorably into a collision course, here they are again.

He should just move. It’s a much more logical idea; he’s too extroverted to become a hermit (though he does rather like the idea of becoming nocturnal). The apartment is still littered with memories anyway, reminders he can’t scrub away, memories that sting and ache and burn and yet he craves them.

The apartment was the first place he kissed Harry, the first place they made love, the first place he told Harry he loved him – and the first place Harry said it back. It’s where Harry tried to teach him to cook (with limited success) and where Louis tried to teach Harry to play FIFA (with even less success).

Even beyond that, though – the apartment had been Louis’ first purchase after getting promoted to _Generation_ ’s Head of Web Design, moving from a dingy one-room affair with a broken TV and a shower that was only tepid about half the time, and freezing the other half. It had been the first time he really felt like he was on the right track in life, like he was going to make it. It was where Lottie had first told him she was in love with Tommy, and where he and Fizzy had binge-watched the entirety of _Game of Thrones._

Besides, moving would be a pain in the ass.

Still, Louis does not want to see Harry. He does not want to remember the last time they spoke. He particularly does not want to remember that after he went home, he couldn’t focus for an hour until he took a shower so cold that his lips turned blue.

But he even more doesn’t want Harry to know any of that. So instead he smiles, nods, and moves to push his cart down the aisle past Harry. Cereal can wait.

But rather than letting him pass, Harry grabs his arm. “Wait,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Louis feels like every scrap of his consciousness has suddenly been transferred to his arm, to the sense of Harry’s skin against his. He feels electrified and nauseous at the same time.

“What about?” he asks, trying not to seem

“I want to apologize,” Harry says. “For how I’ve behaved. I thought – well, it hardly matters what I thought. Clearly you’re not interested and I made you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry for that. I won’t do it again.”

“I don’t-” Louis doesn’t know what to say to that. To say he’s not interested is a gross misstatement, but it’s the easiest explanation. Far easier than arguing. It means Harry won’t do it again, and Louis’ heart isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but his head is quite certain it beats the alternative. “It’s fine,” he says at last. “Apology accepted.”

Harry smiles. “Good,” he says. “Well, I guess-”

“Harry, who’s this?”

Harry quickly turns, his eyes widening as he sees Xander striding down the aisle towards him. “Xander, baby, hi!” he says, his voice rising in pitch as he smiles. Xander pulls Harry into his side, tucking his hand into the curve of his hip – a curve that used to feel like a second home for Louis’ hand – and Harry presses a kiss to Xander’s cheek “I was just catching up with Louis, here,” Harry continues. “Louis, this is my boyfriend, Xander. Xander, meet Louis.”

Louis wants to throw up. “Charmed, I’m sure,” he says, hoping it sounds slightly more sincere than he feels. He reaches out to shake Xander’s hand and finds his fingers nearly crushed in a grip that is more challenge than greeting. He keeps his face carefully neutral, refusing to play back.

“Harry’s told me a lot about you,” Xander says.

“I would imagine,” Louis says. “We’ve known each other for over a year.”

Xander frowns. “You told me three months,” he says to Harry, his voice sharp. “Did you lie to me?”

Harry’s eyes widen. “I would never,” he says quickly. “I told you we were _together_ for three months, and we were. We just worked together before that.”

_Just,_ he says, as though their friendship and their work meant nothing. It meant something to Louis. He’d thought it meant something to Harry.

Xander’s frown doesn’t budge, and Louis feels like he’s intruding on something not meant for him. Xander is talking about him like he’s not even there, but then his gaze shifts back to Louis for just a moment and it’s quite clear he’s more than aware of his presence, intends him to hear every word.

“Well, it’s nice to meet your… friend,” Xander says after a moment of silence that feels as loud as a gunshot. “Did you get the rest of the list?”

“Yep,” Harry says brightly. “I think we’re good to check out.”

“Good,” Xander says, reaching for the cart. “Wait – what’s this?” He pulls a box of Frosted Flakes from the cart. “You don’t need this,” he says, tossing it to the floor. “Don’t want to lose your lovely figure; you look so much better now that you go to the gym.”

Harry frowns for a minute, then pushes it aside. “You’re right,” he says with a shrug. “Old habit, I guess.”

Xander nods. “Good boy,” he says, pushing the cart into motion. “Nice to meet you… Lewis, was it?”

The challenge in his eyes says he knows it wasn’t. Louis meets his eyes without flinching. “You too, Xanthum,” he says.

He catches a flash of a smile in Harry’s eyes before it’s pulled back again, and a flicker of anger in Xander’s. Then they’re gone, off down the aisle. Louis watches them leave, watches until they turn the corner and disappear.

He sighs, feeling a strange tired energy buzzing in his veins. He doesn’t know what to think, what to make of Harry or Xander or their interaction or any of it. He bends down to pick up the discarded box of cereal, replacing it on the shelf, then changes his mind and puts it into his cart. As he pushes it down the aisle, heading in the opposite direction from them, he hopes they check out quickly. He has ice cream.

~*~

He can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t. The way Harry had acted, the way Xander had spoken, it eats at him. Not constantly, not when he’s working or when he’s with his family, but in moments of quiet – cooking, showering, just before he falls asleep – it seeps into his mind and it won’t leave and he’s worried.

He’s worried. It’s not his place, it’s not his problem, but he’s worried.

After a week, he texts Zayn. _You were right,_ he says. _I’m worried too._

_Harry?_

_Harry._

_Drinks?_

_Drinks._

He arrives at the bar about fifteen minutes before work usually lets out, but to his surprise Zayn is already there, waving him over to a quiet booth.

“Hey,” he says as he slides in. “You’re here early.”

Zayn shrugs. “Perks of power,” he says, pushing a glass across the table to Louis. “I don’t use ‘em often, but. This is important.”

Louis rubs his finger along the rim of the glass. “It is,” he says. “I don’t know what to do, though. I don’t know if there’s anything we can do.”

Zayn nods slowly. “It’s hard,” he says. “If he doesn’t want to hear it…”

Louis takes a long sip of his drink. “What have you seen?” he asks after a moment. “I’ve only been back for a few weeks, and I missed… so much.”

“Not much,” Zayn says, grimacing. “He was so… distant. At first we thought it was because, well, you know.”

Louis knows.

“But then after he met Xander – he was more energetic, and at first we thought – we thought he might be… better.” Zayn shakes his head. “But he was still so unreachable, wouldn’t spend time with us, wouldn’t talk about you or anything that wasn’t the work. He was always with Xander, was always ‘busy’.” Zayn shapes air quotes around the words, frustration threading through his words.

“Was he already changing?” Louis asks softly.

Zayn looks at him, frowning. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Just, like-” Louis swallows. “I ran into him at the gym last week. Seems like he’s on some fitness kick.”

Zayn’s eyebrows rise. “That is different,” he agrees. “I don’t remember specifically, but…” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “I feel like he was bringing, like, fancier lunches and stuff? More vegetable-y.”

Louis nods. “Xander seems to be very… involved with Harry’s diet.”

“I mean, they are dating,” Zayn points out. “They probably eat together a lot.”

“That’s not-”

“Hullo, fellas!” Niall slides in beside Louis, his energy loud and exuberant and alive as ever. “How’s the beer?”

Louis glances between Niall and Zayn. “Did you invite him?”

“No,” Zayn says, sighing. “Niall, we were talking.”

“About Harry, I know,” Niall says. “I’m interrupting.”

Louis frowns. “Why?”

There’s a pause. Niall sighs. “Look,” he says. “You know I love you, and I love Harry. You know I thought you were great together. You know-”

“Niall,” Louis interrupts. “Just skip to the ‘but’ that is clearly looming.”

Niall scratches at the corner of his mouth, weighing his words carefully. “I’m just not sure it’s a good idea for you to concern yourself with his relationship.”

“If he were happy, I’d agree,” Louis says. “But as things are, I’m not just concerning myself with it – I’m legitimately concerned.”

Niall winces. “And you’re sure that you’re not just projecting?” he asks.

Louis’ frown deepens. “What do you mean?”

“I just-” Niall sighs. “You guys just have a lot of history. I’m worried it might… cloud your judgement?”

“Cloud it how?” Louis asks, baffled. “You think I _want_ him to be miserable?”

“No, not like that,” Niall says quickly. “Well – sort of. I guess – maybe you don’t want him to have moved on.”

“It’s not-”

“Can you honestly tell me that _you_ have?”

Louis looks down at the ground. “No,” he says. “I can’t. I haven’t.”

“Exactly.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Niall sighs. “I didn’t say you were wrong,” he says. “But – maybe you’re not the best person to make that assessment. And even if you’re right, maybe you’re not the best person to do anything about it.”

“Or maybe he’s the only person who can,” Zayn says sharply. “Harry has barely talked to us in months. But he’s striking up conversation with Louis left and right.”

“Whether I want him to or not,” Louis says, taking another tired sip of his beer. “And trust me, I haven’t been encouraging it.”

Niall chews on his lip. “I guess… I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he says. “Either of you.”

Louis shrugs. “Life hurts,” he says. “Some things are worth a little pain.” And for him, Harry is one, has always been one, will always be one.

“And you’re sure Harry’s not-”

“Xander chastised him for the crime of buying Frosted Flakes,” Louis says flatly. “I thought he was going to bite someone’s head off when he found us talking, and I honestly wouldn’t like to take odds on which one of us he would have gone for. I barely recognize Harry, the way he’s been acting, practically throwing himself at me even though he has a boyfriend – I’m not sure what’s happening, but I’m sure something’s different. Something’s _wrong._ I’m not sure I can do anything, but I’m sure I have to try.”

Niall studies him for a long moment. “Okay,” he says at last.

Louis blinks. “Okay?” he says. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Niall agrees. “You knew him better than we did. If you’re this sure something’s up, I trust you. Just – promise me this isn’t about winning him back?”

“If it was just about getting him back, I wouldn’t have turned him down when he propositioned me.”

“He _what?_ ” Niall says, at the same time as Zayn yelps “You _what?_ ”

“Exactly,” Louis says. “I accidentally interrupted his hookup with some random dude at the club, and he told me – he told me maybe I didn’t know him as well as I thought. And maybe I didn’t.” The words are bitter on his tongue; he doesn’t want to believe them. But it doesn’t matter. “I still have to try,” he says. “If the Harry I fell in love with is still there – I have to try. He deserves that.”

Zayn’s hand is soft on Louis. “Don’t destroy yourself in the process,” he says gently. “You deserve that too.”

Too late, Louis can’t help but think, but he nods. “I’ll be careful,” he says. “I just… I need to figure out how to reach him. As a friend.”

“Can you be his friend?”

He can be whatever Harry needs. And right now, a friend seems like what Harry needs more than anything.

He doesn’t say that though. They’d worry. It doesn’t sound healthy – probably isn’t healthy, but then in comparison to Harry…

“I can,” he says, his voice only slightly shaky. “As long as I have my own friends.”

Niall leans into his side, warm and solid and perfect. Zayn squeezes his hand, like an anchor keeping him grounded.

“You’ll always have us,” they tell him.

~*~

The problem is, Louis doesn’t know how to talk to Harry. He doesn’t know how to say he’s worried without it coming off all wrong. He doesn’t know how to even start that conversation – it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing to do over the phone, but how the hell does he set up a meeting for that?

So he doesn’t. He does nothing. He waits. He thinks. He _worries_.

It’s worst in the evenings. Lottie has chastised him out of spending nearly every waking moment working, but he can’t fill every evening with activity, with friends or events or clubs. And the quiet evenings leave him with too much time on his hands.

Which is why on Wednesday night, after dinner is cleaned up, all the dishes washed and put away, the table wiped down, the floor swept, he decides to try curling up on the sofa with a good book.

Well. A business book, anyway. It’s not exactly work. Maybe.

He’s about twenty pages in when the cheerful tones of an almost familiar ringtone pull his attention away. His heart thrums with warmth and excitement before he can fully process why, and he reaches for his phone.

_Hairy Harry_

His stomach bottoms out, taking the warmth with it. Fuck. Fuck his gut instinct, fuck Pavlov and his stupid bells, fuck himself for not de-programming the special ringtone – or better yet, blocking Harry’s number altogether.

He knows he couldn’t do that, though. He probably should, but he’d never be able to. Delete it then. At the very least.

But he didn’t, and now here it is on the screen in front of him making his chest clench and his eyes burn and his throat close up. He stares at the image, Harry beaming up at him, all dimples and curls and sparkling eyes, he stares at it and wills it to _go away_ , to stop, to not be real.

And then it’s gone.

The music cuts out, the photo disappears, and Louis is left feeling even more empty at the loss. God, he’s pathetic.

He turns his attention back to his book – or rather, he turns his eyes, but his mind doesn’t follow suit. Instead it lingers, wondering what Harry’s up to, where he is, why he’s calling.

His phone buzzes and he jumps, heart racing as he peers at the screen.

_One new voicemail from: Hairy Harry._

Fuck.

He should delete it. He doesn’t care what Harry has to say, doesn’t want to listen, doesn’t want to know.

It’s a lie and he knows it. He does want to listen. But he shouldn’t, he _shouldn’t_ , God, he’s trying to get _over_ him but Harry keeps making it hard and anyways he’s _Harry_ and Louis isn’t sure he’ll ever be over him.

He hits play.

“Heeeeyy Lou.” Harry’s voice is crackly, but it’s so familiar and soft and warm and Louis wants to cry. “I know I said I wouldn’t bother you anymore, but I just walked by the pet store and they have a litter of hedgehogs in the window and I just had to tell you.”

Louis bites his tongue, hard. He’s missed Harry’s excitement, his gift for seeing the joy in little things, the way his eyes light up when he talks about them. Hearing it now feels like an ache that soothes itself, raw and painful and yet so sweet and soft and warm.

“And the funniest thing is,” Harry continues, oblivious to the conflict he’s instigating in Louis’ chest, “they all have names, right, like you don’t have to keep it when you adopt them but they give them names even though I can’t tell any of them apart but I guess they can – I hope they can…” He trails off, pausing for a moment, and Louis can picture the way his brow is furrowed in contemplative concern, his bottom lip sticking out just a touch, adorably earnest.

He needs to get himself under control.

“Anyways,” Harry continues. “So they give them all names, and one of the hedgehogs was named – get this – _Lewis!_ ” He giggles. “And I know that’s not your name and you get all irritated whenever anyone pronounced it wrong but like it’s a hedgehog and I just-”

He pauses suddenly, and lets out a loud belch. There’s a moment of silence on the line, then another giggle. “Sorry,” Harry says. “I’m a little drunk.”

Ice settles in Louis stomach. Of course he is. Of course he’s only calling because he’s drunk. Of course he’s only thinking of Louis because he’s absolutely shitfaced.

Of course he’s already wasted at ten on a Wednesday night.

Harry burps again, quieter. “I might be more than a little drunk,” he says. “I actually got kicked out of the bar because I was too drunk.” He pauses. “Also I might have peed in a corner. Maybe. I think that’s what they said, but I don’t really remember.” Another pause. “I hope they’ll let me back. I like that bar.”

A shiver runs up Louis’ spine, the chill that had collected in his stomach spreading through his limbs. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Harry that drunk. They went out from time to time, and he’d heard a few wild college stories, but for the most part Harry was usually content with a bottle of wine over dinner or a couple of beers with the boys.

“I’d let you pee on me,” Harry says suddenly, and Louis nearly chokes on his own tongue. “Let you get it all over my face, dripping into my hair. I’d let you fuck my mouth after, let you tie me to the bed as you choke me with that beautiful cock.”

He keeps talking, his descriptions getting more and more graphic – what he wants Louis to do to him, what he wants to do to Louis – and Louis can’t tell if Harry’s just drunk out of his mind or way kinkier than he realized. Or both.

He doesn’t know why he’s still listening. He shouldn’t be, he should hang up, he shouldn’t be _listening_ to this –

He definitely shouldn’t be enjoying it as much as he is, shouldn’t be pressing a sweaty palm to his groin, he shouldn’t, he _shouldn’t_ –

The voicemail cuts off midsentence, and it feels like cold water thrown in his face. Louis gasps with it, a gasp that trails off into a moan as his dick twitches involuntarily under his fingers.

He should stop. He should delete the voicemail, go take a cold shower, pretend this never happened. He should.

He starts the voicemail playing again and undoes his zipper.

~*~

By the time he’s listened to the voicemail three more times (and come twice), he has two new voicemails. He bites his lip, trying to remind himself why he shouldn’t listen.

But he’s already in this deep. The night is already a lost cause, might as well get his money’s worth. And also make sure Harry got home safe.

He plays the next voicemail.

“Hiyagain, Louuuu,” Harry singsongs. “Apparently voicemails have a time limit? Which is just rude, really. Sometimes I have a lot to saaaay.” He pauses. “Or maybe I just hung up by accident. Like, with my ear or something. I don’t know. Technology is hard.”

Louis can’t help but laugh at that, at the almost pouting tone in Harry’s voice, and the words that sound like something someone triple his age would say. “You’re an idiot,” he whispers affectionately.

“Anywaysssss,” Harry says. “I’m home now. And I found a little something in the kitchen. Listen.”

Harry is home. He’s fine. He’ll sleep it off, have a wicked hangover in the morning by the sound of it, but he’ll be fine. He should hang up.

And then he hears the familiar pop of a wine cork and he is suddenly far less sure that Harry is fine.

“This was probably expensive,” Harry says as Louis hears him pour it into a glass. “I don’t know. I think Xander bought it.” The splashing continues for longer than Louis expects. Harry takes a long, noisy sip, then sighs contentedly. “Good shit,” he says. “You should come over and have some. Wine’s one of those things that’s better when it's shared, you know? Like beds. And orgasms.” He giggles, and Louis is aroused and worried at the same time.

He doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to be so affected by Harry’s voice, doesn’t want to be so concerned over someone who is no longer his to worry about. If anything, Xander should be worrying about Harry.

But he isn’t. He won’t be. Xander doesn’t seem to be that type, and Harry doesn’t normally need that, but right now – right now Louis thinks this might be the exception.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that he should still care so much when Harry has moved on, it’s not fair that Harry keeps doing this to him when he has a fucking boyfriend for fuck’s sake.

“But you’re too good for that, aren’t you?” Harry says, a twist of bitterness threading through his voice. “You don’t care how much this wine cost, probably a pittance for you with your fancy new salary at your fancy new job. You don’t care about my bed, or my orgasms, or my anything. You don’t care about me.”

It’s not true. It’s the farthest thing from true. But Louis doesn’t know how to say that without it being far too painfully clear how much he cares – how much he will always care.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Harry continues, and Louis closes his eyes. “You’re a fucking dick. You fucked me over completely, and for what? For a few months of fun, before you jetted off on some adventure on the other side of the country? Was I just a farewell fuck? A might-as-well, since there’s no awkward co-worker drama if you quit?”

He wasn’t. It was nothing like that. Louis had no idea he was going to quit when they’d started dating – and he’d had no idea that one of his first jobs would be clear across the country. But again, how can he ever explain without it being painfully, blazingly obvious how gone he still is for Harry? He wonders if it’s better if Harry believes that, believes that Louis doesn’t want him anymore, maybe never did. He wonders if it would make Harry stop poking the bruises that cover his heart. He wonders if it will destroy Harry. He wonders if it already has.

“And I fell for every single fucking word,” Harry says. He laughs, loud and harsh and cruel. “You got me good, Louis. Congratu-fucking-lations. Could earn a goddamn Oscar for that performance. Are you proud of yourself?”

Louis wants to cry, or possibly throw up. Both seem equally likely at this point.

There’s a long silence, the only sound Harry’s ragged breathing. “I wish you’d never come back,” he says at last.

And then he’s gone. Louis lets the phone fall to the bed, choking on a sob. He can’t breathe, his head swimming, and it fucking _hurts_. It hurts like nothing he’s ever felt. It hurts worse than losing Harry in the first place.

He lies back on the bed, blinking hard as he stares up at the ceiling and swallows, hard. Slowly, slowly, the pain recedes – still agonizing, but no longer all-consuming. It curls into a tight, throbbing ball tucked behind his heart, between his lungs, and he can feel it pulsing but he can think between the waves now.

And the main thought rising through the chaos is: There’s one more voicemail, received some ten minutes after the second.

He’s not sure he can handle it. He’s not sure he can bear anymore of Harry’s hatred, even though he knows he deserves it. He’s not sure he can resist.

He presses play for the third time.

“I miss you.”

Far from the furious heat of the previous message, Harry’s voice is now thin and bleak. He sniffles wetly, and Louis’ heart breaks a little more.

“I fucking miss you, you know that?” Harry says again. “You were just – I thought we were it, you know? I thought we were going to make it. I thought – and then you ruined all of it.” His voice cracks, and Louis can’t pretend he’s not crying too, wetness pouring down his cheeks.

“Xander is – he’s great,” Harry says. “He’s funny and smart and he motivates me to work harder. He’s great. But – I don’t think he loves me. Not really, not – not like you did. Or not like I thought you did. Not like I loved you.”

The words are acid in Louis’ veins and salve on his skin, ripping out his heartstrings and then using them to stitch him back together again.

“I’m not enough for him,” Harry says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m never enough for him. No matter what I do. I’m never enough for anyone. I’m just pathetic. God, why am I like this?”

He sniffles again, and Louis can hear him wiping roughly at his face. He closes his eyes, not even trying to mop up the tears that coat his face.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “This was dumb. You probably think I’m an idiot, I’m disgusting.” He laughs, the sound almost burbling. “I’m sorry. I’m the one who’s not good enough.”

The message ends, and Louis’ ears are ringing almost painfully, his head throbbing.

“You are good enough,” he whispers to the darkness. “You are enough. You are.”

He wonders what he ever did to make Harry think he wasn’t.

Louis pushes himself to his feet, striding down the hall to the bathroom with a purposefulness he doesn’t quite feel. He needs to stop thinking about this, needs to stop worrying about someone who isn’t his to worry about anymore.

But he is worried.

He shakes his head, turning on the shower and dialing up the temperature as hot as he can stand. He’s still sticky with sweat from his earlier, ah, lapse in control, his shirt clinging to his back as he peels it off.  

But before he can step into the steaming water, he finds himself pausing again. Harry is home, alone, absolutely wasted. There’s no one to make sure he drinks some water and goes to bed – there’s no one to make sure he doesn’t fall and hurt himself, or make sure he doesn’t have alcohol poisoning. There’s no one there at all.

He’d do it for a friend. He’d do it if Zayn called him that fucked up; maybe even Niall, though he’s not sure Niall is physically capable of reaching anything near that point. But he and Harry aren’t really friends anymore – they’re so much more than that. And so much less.

As he stands there, half-dressed, fog filling the room, unable to decide – his phone vibrates on the counter.

**_im sorry_** _,_ flashes across the screen. **_yuo shulndt have ti wory abt me. im sorry. im not ur prolbm anemor._**

The spelling is atrocious, yet another sign of how far gone the usually scrupulous Harry is – though whether it’s just the alcohol or him as a whole, Louis is afraid to know. But rather than distancing him, the words spark another worry in Louis’ mind.

Harry is upset. Deeply, deeply upset, in a way Louis has never seen him before. Feeling insufficient, unloved, alone. And now texting Louis that he’s not his problem?

He doesn’t want to worry, doesn’t want to imagine, doesn’t want to – but he is.

He pulls his shirt back on, grabs his phone, and heads for the door.

~*~

There’s no answer to Louis’ knock after a full minute, so he tries the key that he hasn’t been able to bring himself to take off his ring. Amazingly it still works, the lock clicking open smoothly. Louis steps into the apartment with a shiver of memories. They’d spent more time in his apartment, since it was bigger, but they’d had plenty of shared moments here – dinners, TV nights, times Louis had come to pick Harry up for a date but they wound up tangled together on the couch instead.

The apartment is still familiar, but it feels different too. The art that had adorned the walls is nowhere to be seen, and the assortment of throw cushions that Louis had always affectionately teased Harry about has disappeared from the living room. Other places, the apartment feels conflicted – most of the jackets are hung up in the closet, but several are draped over a chair in the entryway, and though the cereal boxes are all lined up neatly on the counter, two of them are open.

But he’s not here to reminisce. He’s here for Harry.

He finds him in the bathroom, curled on the floor and slumped against a wall. There’s a sour smell in the air, and a wineglass lies broken in the sink, the red liquid splashed across the white surface. Louis stands in the doorway for a moment, heart in his mouth until he can see the gentle rise and fall of Harry’s chest.

So he’s alive, at least. One worry cleared, about twenty-seven to go.

It takes more effort than he expects to step into the room, kneeling next to Harry and laying a gentle hand on his arm. “Harry, wake up,” he says softly. “Come on, this can’t be comfortable.”

Harry jerks, his eyes flying open as he turns so fast Louis could swear he hears the bones in his neck crack. “You,” he whispers. “God damn it, not again.”

Louis pulls back. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, per se, but he hadn’t expected outright hostility. Maybe he should have.

He’s even more surprised when Harry slaps himself across the face. “Wake up, you piece of shit,” he mutters. “I’m sick of these fucking dreams already.”

Oh. “I’m not a dream,” Louis says.

Harry snorts. “That’s what you’d say if this were a dream.”

Louis sighs. He doesn’t have the energy for this, mentally or physically. “Well, dream or not, I’m here and I'm telling you to get up."

Harry closes his eyes and slaps himself again, then pinches his arm, hard. He opens his eyes slowly, almost hesitantly.

 “Hi,” Louis says, giving a sarcastic wave. “Still here. Still not a dream.”

Harry’s eyes are wide and darting, his expression a mixture of shock and confusion. “But… why?” he says at last. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t choke on your own vomit,” Louis says. “Or do something else dramatic. Since you sounded kind of messed up in your messages.”

“My… oh.” Harry looks down. “Yeah. I guess.” He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d care.”

Louis shifts uncomfortably. Responding to that feels like a tightrope walk over a volcano, feels like Icarus flying too close to the sun. Maybe he should lie, but he’s never lied to Harry in his life. He doesn’t want to start now. “Of course I care,” he says after a moment. “I’ll always care.”

Harry stares at him for a long moment.

And then before Louis can process what’s happening, can make sense of why Harry is moving towards him, suddenly Harry’s lips are on his and Louis’ heart is whole and Louis’ heart is breaking and Louis’ heart is Harry’s, always Harry’s.

His hands move without conscious though, cupping Harry’s cheeks as he kisses him back with a fire he’d almost forgotten he had.

And then he snaps back to himself. Harry is drunk and he’s upset and he’s fucking _in a relationship_ and Louis should absolutely not be doing this, no matter how much he wants it, no matter how much he misses it.

He pushes Harry away, gently but firmly. “No,” he says. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

Harry’s face shifts from eager to shocked to hurt to embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have, fuck, I’m sorry-” The color drains from his face, and he scrambles back, pulling himself over the toilet just in time. Louis looks away as Harry retches, his own stomach turning at the sound of heaves and dull splashes.

Louis has a glass of water ready when he’s done. Harry accepts it with a nod, swishing it around his mouth. “Thanks,” he says. “Sorry about that.”

“It happens.”

“And the other thing.”

Louis looks away. “Yeah,” he says. “Well.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment before Louis speaks again.

“Finish that glass,” he says, “and maybe one more, and then we’ll try standing you up. You’ll be more comfortable in bed.”

Harry sighs. “I’d argue,” he says. “But you’ve got that look in your eyes that says you just might slap me.” He chuckles. “Maybe that’d sober me up a little.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to slap you,” he says. “I’m not above dragging you to bed by your ankles, though. Drink your water.”

Harry obeys, sipping slowly until he drains the glass. Louis offers him another and he takes it, swirling the water around. There’s a bit of clarity in his eyes now that hadn’t been there before, though he’s still swaying slightly even from the floor. It’s something, at least.

When he finishes, Louis helps him to his feet and supports him, swaying, to the bedroom. He tries to block out the memories that coat every surface, twice as many in the bedroom, twice as vivid and twice as painful. He tries not to think about skin and sweat, heat and hands. He tries not to look as they wrestle Harry out of jeans tighter than any Louis has ever seen him wear.

Instead, he tucks Harry in, puts a glass of water on the nightstand, sets a garbage can on the floor next to the bed. He resists the urge to brush damp curls from his forehead, press a soft kiss to rosy skin. He turns to leave.

But as he does, Harry reaches out, catching his wrist. “Don’t go,” he murmurs, already sounding half asleep. “Please. Just stay with me.”

Louis is torn. He wants to run, wants to escape the ache that fills his chest being so close to Harry. He wants to stay forever, watch over Harry as he sleeps, never leave his side. And he’s never been good at telling Harry no.

“Fine,” he says, pulling up a chair beside the bed. “But you have to promise to go right to sleep.”

“Mmhm,” Harry says. He shifts his grip on Louis’ arm, sliding his hand down to twine loosely with Louis’ fingers. It takes all of Louis’ willpower to not press a soft kiss to those delicate fingers.

Just until he falls asleep, he tells himself. Just to make sure he’s still breathing, to make sure he doesn’t throw up again. It’s for safety.

It’s only half a lie.

Harry’s hand is warm and solid in his as he watches Harry’s face go slack, his breathing calm and steady.  Louis barely notices as his own eyelids begin to droop lower and lower.

He should go, he thinks, as his breath slows. He should leave, he thinks, as his head tips forward. He should-

~*~

Louis wakes up stiff, his back a patchwork of pain and his legs slightly numb. He tries to sit up, and realizes he already is, blinking the sleep from his eyes to find himself still seated at Harry’s bedside. His hand is still twined with Harry’s, slightly sweaty but so easy, so comfortable.

Harry is fast asleep, his face soft and open and looking the most like the Harry that Louis remembers that he’s seen since he came back. There’s a soft smile just brushing his lips, the first rays of morning sun tracing his cheeks and making him look almost angelically ethereal. He’s beautiful.

Louis shakes his head. He pulls out his phone to check the time – almost five in the morning. He’s been here for hours, far longer than he meant to, and far longer than his spine would have preferred.

It still feels almost painful to let go of Harry’s hand, lowering it gently. A small, traitorous part of him hopes that Harry will resist, will cling to him or reach out, but he doesn’t. He makes a small noise, shifting slightly, but nothing more. Louis stands, his joints creaking audibly, but Harry still doesn’t stir.

Every part of Louis’ body wants to stay, heart and soul. He wants to stay at Harry’s side, stay holding his hand – or better yet, crawl into bed beside him, pressing soft kisses to the back of his neck, wrapping himself around Harry’s back. He wants it so bad it hurts, and he’s almost certain Harry wouldn’t mind.

But he doesn’t. He walks away, stopping only long enough to grab a bottle of painkillers and a fresh glass of water from the bathroom and leave them on Harry’s nightstand. Then he makes his way to the front door, feet automatically avoiding the boards that creak, and slips out.

The sound of the bolt shooting into place as he locks the door behind him feels like waking from a dream. He blinks, feeling a chill breeze from the stairwell a few feet away, and shakes his head. Already, the events of the night are beginning to feel fuzzy and unreal – and he’s not sure he’d believe it if he said it to himself. He blinks again, his eyes still sticky with sleep and sleepiness. Maybe a walk will help, brisk in the early morning air. Also coffee. Coffee will definitely help.

Coffee does not help. Oh, it wakes him up, but that only seems to lock him deeper into the relentless cycle of his thoughts, spinning round and round and never going anywhere.

He’s worried about Harry. Desperately worried. Last night, he was okay, but if Louis isn’t much mistaken it’s far from the first night like that – and unless something changes, probably far from the last. It’s not sustainable, it’s not _healthy_ , and sooner or later, a downward spiral runs out of room.

But he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to fix it, especially not without breaking himself. He feels helpless, and yet so, so responsible for something that isn’t his place to worry about.

He suddenly realizes that, without his entirely meaning to, his feet have once again taken him in the direction of _Generation_ headquarters, tracing a route he used to walked so many times with Harry at his side. He pauses, then keeps going. Maybe the familiarity of it will help, though goodness knows what with. Maybe it will remind him of something that Harry has forgotten – that they both have.

He no longer has key card access to the offices, but a friendly security guard recognizes him, and after a minute of friendly conversation she waves him through the gate. He takes the elevator up in silence, few people here so early in the morning. He wonders what he’s doing here, why he’s doing it, what he’s hoping to achieve. He doesn’t stop.

The elevator dings its arrival at his floor, and he steps off and into the past. Nothing has changed, from the art on the walls to the arrangement of desks and offices to the faint smell of takeout pizza that always permeated the space no matter how many times the carpets were cleaned. It’s not much, but it still looks like home.

And stepping out of one of the side offices is Liam, a perplexed frown on his face that deepens when he sees Louis.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “I mean – not that you’re not welcome here, it’s good to see you, but it’s so early, and-”

“I know,” Louis says, cutting Liam off. “I’m not sure. I just… needed to see it, I think.”

Liam is quiet for a moment, studying him. Louis wonders what he’s looking for, wonders what he sees. At last, he nods and turns away.

“I’m making tea,” he says. “You look like you could use it.”

“Nothing caffeinated,” Louis calls after him. “I’m wired enough.”

Liam glances back, a flash of concern in his eyes, but nods before disappearing into the kitchen.

Louis winds his way through the desks, tracing his fingers over them. Many of them still have the same photos taped to the backs, the same trinkets or books scattered across their surface. He can name their occupants – James, Rebecca, Ed, Jade. A few he doesn’t recognize, and he wonders who they are, how they came to _Generation,_ what they think of it – what they want it to be.

He doesn't look at his own desk, or at the office he was upgraded to as Head of Web Design. He definitely doesn't look at Harry's desk. He doesn't want to think about him leaving. He doesn't want to think about him being replaced. 

“I hope chamomile tea is okay,” Liam says, emerging from the kitchen with two mugs, and Louis jumps. “You take it plain, right?”

“That’s fine, yeah,” Louis says, accepting the mug Liam hands him. “I could use some calming. My brain feels like it’s running a hundred miles a minute, and I only had one cup of coffee.”

“Did you sleep?

“Some.” Louis glances over at Liam, who is perched carefully on Carly’s chair, pretending to be very interested in his cup. “Sleep isn’t necessarily the same as rest, though.”

He sips his drink, savoring the flavor, wishing that soothing his worries could be as easy as a hot drink.

“Do you want to talk?” Liam asks timidly after a moment. “I don’t know if you were just looking to be left alone, or – but you look like someone who could use a friend.”

Louis nods. “There is that,” he says. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Life often is. The important stuff especially.”

Louis snorts into his mug. “You sound like a fortune cookie.” Liam frowns, and Louis feels a pang of regret. “Sorry,” he says. “Defense mechanism. You’re right, of course. I just wish it wasn’t.”

“Is this something to do with Harry?”

Louis can’t meet Liam’s eyes. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you’re a mess,” Liam says bluntly. “And Harry’s the only thing I’ve ever seen get under your skin in quite that way. I suppose it could be your family, but then I don’t know why you’d be here.” He pauses. “Is it about Harry?”

“You’re right, of course,” Louis repeats. “I just wish it wasn’t.” He sighs. “I feel so stupid for worrying, and so helpless to do anything, but I just – I can’t stop myself.”

 Liam nods. “You still care about him.”

Louis sighs again. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Liam frowns. “There’s nothing wrong with caring,” he says.

Louis laughs. “I care too much, though,” he says. “We were only together a few months; we’ve been broken up longer than we dated. And yet I can’t get over him. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Liam says. “It’s what makes you who you are, Louis. You care. So deeply you almost drown in it, but you care anyways.” He smiles. “And you didn’t tell me I was being silly when you found me crying in the cleaning closet on the anniversary of my Gran’s death. You didn’t tell me it had been three years and I should be over it. You just sat with me.”

Louis looks up at him in surprise. “You remember that?”

“I don’t cry at work very often,” Liam says wryly. “It stood out a little.” He nudges Louis’ ankle with his foot. “But that’s my point,” he says. “You don’t even see it as anything special. It’s just what you do, for anyone who you care about. For anyone who needs you. And I’m not sure you’ve ever cared about anyone as much as you care about Harry – or had anyone who needed you more.”

Louis swallows hard. His chest is all one throbbing ache, like he’s swallowed something too big and it’s stuck halfway down, except what he’s swallowed is his words his feelings his _heart_. “You’re worried about him too,” he says.

“I – yeah, I am,” Liam says. “He – changed, after you left. Which I’m not blaming you for, by the way; shit happens. But he took it hard. And I don’t think he knew how to handle it." He shakes his head. "I think he fell into the first arms that could make him feel wanted again. But I don’t think those arms want to lift him back up. And I don’t think he knows how to do it on his own.”

“I don’t know if I know how to either,” Louis says. “And I’m not sure he’d let me if I did.”

Liam sighs. “He’s always been stubborn,” he says. “You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved, Louis. You can try everything, but at the end of the day – that’s on him.”

Louis has to grip his mug with all his strength to stop his hands from shaking. “I have to, though,” he says. “I have to save him. I can’t let him – I can’t let him destroy himself. I just don’t know how to stop it.”

Liam scratches thoughtfully at his chin. “Then I guess maybe the first step is making him want to be saved,” he says. “Or making him believe he can be.”

Louis nods slowly. He can work with that, he thinks.

Liam fixes him with a piercing gaze. “And you have to believe that you’re worth saving too.”

Louis leans back in surprise. “Me?” he says. “What do you mean?”

“You think this is your fault,” Liam says. “It’s not. You think that rescuing Harry from himself is some kind of penance for a crime you didn’t commit. You don’t have to make up for anything, Louis. You deserve peace too.”

Liam’s words strike straight at Louis’ heart, twisting through his ribcage and catching in his lungs. He’s right, of course. Louis just wishes he wasn’t. But there’s no denying it. He wants to save Harry because, stupid or not, he still loves him and hates to see him like this. But he also needs to do it because he’s the reason Harry is broken. He’s the reason Harry needs saving.

“It’s not your fault,” Liam repeats, and Louis knows he believes what he’s saying, but he can’t bring himself to. “Don’t beat yourself up trying to stop him from doing the same. You can’t show him the way back until you find it yourself.”

There’s a reason Liam is Head of Youth Issues, Louis thinks. He’s never met anyone with the same ability to zero in on a problem, to see exactly how it affects people and know exactly what they need to hear.

_Generation_ is goddamned lucky to have him. And so is Louis.

~*~

Workers are beginning to trickle into the offices by the time Louis finally leaves, giving Liam a tight hug before he does. Liam tenses for a moment, then relaxes into it with a surprised laugh.

“Thank you,” Louis whispers, his throat tight. “Thank you for not dancing around things, or trying to protect me. Thank you for just being honest – for just being you.”

Liam smiles. “Thank you for trusting me,” he says. “And thank you for caring.” He touches Louis’ chest gently, his fingers just barely brushing across his heart. “Don’t ever let anything destroy that,” he says. “The world may be painful and cruel sometimes, but we need people like you in it. It’s hard, but don’t let it make you hard.”

Louis nods, wiping damp eyes. “I’ll try,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

The elevator ride down is still quiet and empty; people are arriving now but no one is leaving yet. He steps out into the morning air, squinting at the sun, and turns left rather than right. There’s a park nearby, not one he visited often but one he always meant to.

As he wanders down green pathways, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out to find a text message from Harry.

**_Sorry about last night_ **

Louis bites his tongue, fingers feeling almost numb as he types out, _It’s fine_

He wonders how much Harry remembers – calling him? Kissing him? Making him come over in the middle of the night to take care of him? He wonders which parts he’s apologizing for. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t think he can handle the answers.

**_It really isn’t_** , Harry sends back a moment later. **_but thanks anyways_**

Louis can do gratitude. Gratitude is simple, is straightforward. Not like love, like hate, like regret. Like a stupid fucking savior complex he can’t seem to talk himself out of.

_What are friends for?_ he sends, and tucks his phone away.

~*~

At first, Louis feels refreshed, like he’s found a new sense of purpose – a new vision. He finally feels secure, feels like he knows what he’s doing, what he wants to do. But as the days drag on and he realizes he still isn’t sure how to actually _do_ anything about it, as he can’t stop thinking about how each day is changing Harry a little more from the man he loves – or loved – to the man Xander wants him to become.

It wears on him. His focus goes to shit, his productivity drops through the floor, he can’t sleep. He pushes through as best he can. It’s ironic, he thinks; he wasn’t nearly so distracted after they broke up. It hurt, but he threw himself into his work even more. Maybe now his heart is making up for lost time.

After one particularly unproductive morning, he decides to hit the gym before lunch, hoping it will clear his head. He’s twenty minutes into his run when he glances across the room and realizes his plan has backfired spectacularly. A familiar pair of piercing green eyes catch his and he stumbles, quickly turning down the speed on the machine so he can catch his breath, both literally and figuratively.

As his legs keep churning along, so does his brain. And maybe it’s the lack of oxygen, or the lack of sleep, or the lack of food, or just simple frustration but something in him snaps. He shuts off the machine, grabs his things, and moves over to the free weights section where Harry is working.

“Hey,” he says, picking up a pair of midsize dumbbells. He can lift more, but he’s not trying to show off or impress anyone. And he can’t hold a conversation if he’s trying not to drop things on his toes.

“Hey,” Harry echoes, not breaking his rhythm. He lifts the weights up over his head then slowly lowers them back down, arms extended. The muscles of his arms bulge, his chest flexing slightly under his tight shirt, already slightly damp with sweat and sticking to him just right-

Louis forces his eyes away, sitting down on a bench and focusing on his weights.

“We keep running into each other,” he says. “It’s almost like we live in the same neighborhood.”

Harry chuckles. “Crazy, that.”

Louis is quiet for a few reps before he speaks again. “You didn’t used to be much of one for working out.”

Harry shrugs, an impressive feat as his lifting doesn’t pause for a second. “Neither did you,” he says.

“What changed your mind?”

“Just been trying to take better care of myself,” Harry says. “Xander’s been very encouraging.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Harry finally lowers the weights to the ground, squinting at Louis. “What does that mean?”

Louis swallows hard. “He seemed… a little bossy, I guess.”

“That’s just Xander,” Harry says. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Then why didn’t you buy the cereal? It’s just cereal.”

“It’s not healthy.”

“Not everything has to be.”

“I want to be, though,” Harry says sharply. “I want to be better. Eat better, exercise better. Xander supports me. He’s just helping.”

“He didn’t seem-” Louis bites his tongue. This isn’t how he wanted to have this conversation. He sets down his weights and sighs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“You’re jealous,” Harry says, his eyes flashing. “You’ve got no right. Just because I’ve moved on-”

“I’m just worried,” Louis interrupts. “I hope Xander is everything you say he is. I really do.”

“He is.”

“And if that’s true, then I’m glad for you.” Louis meets his eyes, his gaze steady. “I wish you every happiness, Harry. You deserve it. I just worry that Xander isn’t making you happy.”

“Of course he is.”

“Is he?” Louis presses, stepping closer to Harry. “Does he encourage you, or does he make you feel like you have to change? Does he tell you you’re beautiful without conditions, or only because you’ve been working out? Does he make you feel good, or does he make you feel like you have to be good enough?”

Louis is standing close to him now, close enough to see a flash of uncertainty in Harry’s eyes, a moment of confusion, and he thinks just maybe…

“You deserve someone who makes you happy,” he says softly. “You deserve someone who takes care of you. You deserve someone who treats you like a prince.”

Harry’s face suddenly clears, the uncertainty gone as fast as it appears, and his expression hardens into a cold anger. “Someone like you, you mean?”

Louis winces. “That’s not what I meant,” he says. “I just-”

“You _just_ can’t keep your nose out of my business,” Harry retorts, his voice rising in volume and pitch. “You don’t know a thing about him. You don’t know a thing about _me._ And just because I wasn’t good enough for you doesn’t mean I’m not good enough for Xander. He loves me.”

“And do you love him?”

There’s a pause that’s just a fraction of a second too long – maybe it’s nothing, maybe Louis is just hopefully delusional and imagining it, but it feels like Harry hesitates before he says, “Of course I do.”

But Louis doesn’t comment on it. “Okay,” he says instead.

“Okay? That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Louis shrugs. “I’m not here to ruin your happiness. I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

“Of course I’m happy,” Harry says. “I have a great boyfriend, I’m eating better and working out more so I feel better, I’m having great sex – I’m _great_. You want me to be miserable and moping after you, but I’m not. I’m fine. I’m better than ever. What have you got to show for your time?”

The words sting, but Louis pushes them aside. Half a dozen retorts spring to his lips – I’ve been establishing my own company while you left the best job you ever had, I’ve been travelling to places you’ve always wanted to go – but he pushes them aside too.

“I’m not here to fight with you,” he says. “I just wanted you to know… whatever happens, I’m here for you. As a friend. No matter what happens, no matter what you need. I’m here.”

That doesn’t seem to have been what Harry was expecting. His mouth hangs open, his eyes wide with surprise and confusion. “Louis-”

“Don’t,” Louis says, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I just… wanted you to know. In case.”

He turns, heading for the changerooms before Harry can say anything else. As he reaches the door he glances back. Harry is still standing exactly where he left him, staring after him with an expression that Louis can’t quite read and isn’t sure he wants to. He doesn’t look angry, or upset, at least, Louis thinks.

He turns back, walking out of the room. He just hopes he didn’t mess anything up.

~*~

When he knocks on the door of the house he grew up in, he can already smell something baking inside. He hopes it’s cookies. He hopes the promise of sweets will coerce the little ones into behaving long enough for him and Jay to sneak off somewhere to talk.

He needs his mom.

The door swings open to reveal a slightly unkempt Jay, batter splashed across her apron and flour in her hair. “Louis!” she exclaims, opening the door wider. “Come in, baby; so good to see you.”

“Thanks Mom,” he says, stepping inside. It always feels like coming home, even all these years after moving out. There’s still pictures of him through the years hanging along the walls, and he’d be very much surprised if there wasn’t at least a couple pieces of his terrible childhood art tacked onto the fridge.

“I’ve got chocolate chip cookies in the oven,” Jay says, moving back towards the kitchen. “Should be done in a mo, do you want some?”

Louis smiles. “More than anything,” he says.

Jay pauses, something in his voice clearly setting off her mom-radar. “Is everything all right, Louis?”

Louis shrugs. “Not exactly,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

Jay laughs. “You were here for dinner two weeks ago,” she says. “But I’ve missed you too. I’m glad you’re back. It was hard having you so far away.”

“It was hard being so far away,” Louis says, truthfully. He pauses for a moment. “But it’s also been hard to come back.”

Understanding sparks in Jay’s eyes. “So that’s what this is about,” she says. “If you pour out some milk, I think these cookies are finished. I’ll let Dan know he’s on parental duty for a bit, and we can talk – really talk.”

Louis doesn’t know how Jay manages to know exactly what he needs, but he’s pretty sure he has the best mom on the entire planet. “I love you,” he says, reaching around to give her a quick hug. It might get his clothes dirty, but he honestly couldn’t care less.

Jay hugs him back, patting his head gently. “Right back at you, baby,” she says.

Fifteen minutes later, they’re curled up in the window nook of Jay’s bedroom, milk and cookies on the table in front of them. Louis has nibbled on one, but he doesn’t have an appetite, really. He can feel Jay’s eyes on him, waiting for him to speak first.

“I’m in love with Harry,” he says at last. It’s not exactly how he’d intended to start the conversation, but it’s true. He glances up at Jay.

She nods. “I know.”

Louis is startled. “You – you do?”

She smiles. “I’m your mother, Louis,” she says. “I’m not blind. I know you. I know what it means when you won’t stop talking about something – or when you won’t talk about it at all. I know you’ve been different since you left, and I know you haven’t been the same since you got back.”

Louis shakes his head. “I’m more the same than he is,” he says. “He’s – damaged. A stranger.”

Jay sucks in a quiet breath. “Ah,” she says. “That explains – a lot.”

“Does it?”

Jay shrugs. “If he was over you, then you wouldn’t still be so cagey about things,” she says. “You haven’t talked about him at all – this is the first time you’ve even said his name – and whenever anyone else mentions him, you get jumpy. On the other hand, if he were still in love, you two would have patched things up by now.” Louis winces, and Jay squeezes his knee softly. “It hadn’t occurred to me there was a third option,” she says. “One where he’s somewhere in between – suspended. It doesn’t sound sustainable.”

“It’s not,” Louis says. “He’s self-destructing. And what he’s not destroying, his new boyfriend is. Sometimes I’m worried that the Harry I loved – that I love – doesn’t even exist anymore. But then-”

He cuts himself off, biting his lip. Jay looks out the window, quiet, undemanding. She waits. Louis takes a bite of cookie, bracing himself.

He tells her everything. He tells her about the night at the club, about the grocery store, about Harry’s apartment. He skims over the voicemails and the gym changeroom, but he gives her the gist. He’d given the boys bits and pieces, mostly condensed, but he tells Jay the whole story, start to finish. And she listens.

By the time he’s done, the two cookies left on the plate are stone cold. Louis picks one up, scratching crumbs off the sides. “What do you think?” he says at last.

“What do _you_ think?”

Louis bites his lip, digging his nail further into the cookie. “I think – I think I’m in hopelessly over my head. I think I can’t possibly do what has to be done. I think I have to do it anyways.”

Jay nods. “Sounds about right.”

“But – how?” Louis asks, his voice desperate. “How do I do the impossible? How do I fix him when I’m the one that broke him?”

“With love,” Jay says, and it sounds so simple when she says it. “With support. With kindness. With security. With no judgment. With love.”

Louis lets out a shaky breath. “Will it work?” he asks, knowing she can’t possibly answer that any more than he can.

“I don’t know,” Jay says, exactly as he expected. “But I don’t think anything else will.”

It’ll have to do.

~*~

It’s late as Louis climbs the stairs to his apartment; later than he expected to be out. A few errands always turns into twice as many, each taking longer than expected and slowly filling up the whole day until it’s past dinnertime and his feet are aching and all he wants is to get home and put his feet up on the couch.

He’s halfway down the hall, still digging for his keys, when he hears a wet sniffle. His head shoots up and he sees the slumped form of someone sitting against the wall. His feet move faster without conscious direction; he recognizes that shirt, recognizes that hair, recognizes-

“Harry?”

The figure lifts its head and Louis feels like a deer caught in the headlights as Harry’s eyes find his, almost transfixing. But then he takes in the blotchiness of his face, his eyelashes clumped together and his eyes damp and he snaps out of it and into the desperate need to make things somehow okay again, make Harry somehow okay again.

“What happened?” he asks, then shakes his head. “Never mind that, come inside. Do you need a hand with anything?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t have much,” he says. “Just – just what I could grab. I didn’t know where else to go, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t apologize,” Louis says, his voice somewhere between sharp and soft. “You’re always welcome here.” He pushes the door open, waving Harry in ahead of him. As he follows him in, a thought occurs to him. “Don’t you have a key?” he says. “You could have let yourself in, not had to wait out in the hallway.”

Harry glances at him, then away. “I couldn’t,” he says.

Louis doesn’t push it. Instead, he heads for the kitchen to put the kettle on. “Make yourself comfortable,” he calls over his shoulder. “I was thinking of watching _The Good Place_ , if you want to put it on.”

He returns a few minutes later, a steaming mug in each hand, to find Harry curled up on the edge of the couch. _The Good Place_ is up on the TV, but it’s muted. Louis hands over one mug and settles himself at the other end of the couch, close but leaving space.

Harry takes a long sip of the hot liquid, closing his eyes as he swallows. Louis watches the bob of his throat, the shiver of warmth, before his eyes rise back to Harry’s face.

He almost drops his cup. The tearstains had disguised it before, and the terrible fluorescent light of the hallway, but amidst the shapeless spots of red on Harry’s cheek is one much larger, much more distinct. The shape of a handprint.

He doesn’t say anything, swallows his questions with his tea, but as Harry looks up at him he can’t quite hide his shock in time. Harry’s face closes off for a moment, trying to put up a brave face, but then it crumples and Louis’ heart crumples with it as Harry starts crying again.

“You were right,” he whispers, his head hanging low as tears drip into his tea. “You were right, about everything, and I was so _stupid,_ and-”

“You’re not stupid,” Louis says, and he wanted to give Harry space but he’s not sure that’s what he needs right now and also he can’t help himself. He moves over, tugging Harry’s mug from his hands and setting it on the coffee table before tugging Harry into a tight hug. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Harry collapses into him, face pressed to Louis’ shirt as he shakes with sobs. Louis rubs soft circles into his back, fiddles with his hair, holds him close. Neither of them says a word. They just sit together, holding on tight, the only sound Harry’s ragged breathing.

Eventually, Harry’s grip loosens and his breath evens out. He slumps against Louis, and Louis carefully lowers him to lie across his lap. Harry doesn’t move, his face soft and peaceful. Louis sits there for a few minutes, just taking it in – the feeling of Harry’s hair under his fingers, the smell of his shampoo, the soft peacefulness of his face. He tries not to look at the marks on his cheek, marks that are probably going to bruise by morning. Harry is still so beautiful, though, bruises or not. He’s the most beautiful thing Louis has ever seen.

He lets himself drink it in for a few minutes, then forces himself to his feet, scooping Harry up in his arms. He staggers slightly with the weight, but carries him easily down the hall. He lays him carefully in the bed, pulling the covers up tightly. He pauses for a moment, brushing the hair off of Harry’s face, unable to stop himself from pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. His lips linger for just a moment, then then he straightens. He walks out of the room and back to the living room. He sits on the couch, staring at the still-muted TV without seeing a single thing.

~*~

Louis wakes up to the smell of bacon and the feel of a soft blanket draped over him. He sits up slowly, his joints stiff, and rubs his eyes. He’s still on the couch where he fell asleep, but his glasses have been moved to the coffee table and a pillow has been placed under his head.

“Tea?”

Louis jumps at the unexpected voice and looks over to see Harry sitting curled in an armchair. His hair is messy, his face is marked by purple bruises, and he’s still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, but he looks… better, somehow. There’s something in his eyes, in his posture…

“Tea would be fantastic,” Louis says.

“I made breakfast.”

“It smells amazing.” Louis stands, stretching. “Let’s tuck in.”

Harry doesn’t move. “You didn’t have to give up your bed,” he says after a moment. “I would never have asked that of you.”

Louis is quiet for a moment. “I know,” he says. “But I did.”

Another silence. “Thank you.”

Louis can’t do this. “Come on,” he says. “I’m starving. We can talk over bacon. Bacon makes everything better.”

Harry gives a half-smile at that, and obediently climbs to his feet and heads for the kitchen.

Harry has indeed cooked up a full breakfast – bacon, eggs, toast, even some fruit that Louis had almost forgotten he’d purchased. The table is set, and Louis sits down to eat without a second thought.

Harry is more hesitant at first, taking small, nervous bites. “Come on,” Louis says around a mouthful of eggs, a strip of bacon half-dangling from between his teeth. “It’s not like I can eat all this myself. Don’t let it go to waste; dig in.”

Harry’s smile is tentative and small, but he does serve himself another helping of eggs, which Louis counts as a win.

They’re quiet through the meal. Louis still doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to ask questions Harry isn’t ready answer. He wants to leave space, let Harry pick the path. Harry doesn’t seem to have much to say, though. He keeps glancing up at Louis and away, and every now and then he looks like he’s readying himself to say something, but he never does.

At last, Louis pushes himself away from the table. “That was the best breakfast I’ve had in ages,” he says. He starts to gather the dishes, and Harry stands to help. “Don’t worry about it,” Louis says. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”

“I want to help,” Harry says quickly. “You’ve done so much already.”

Louis waves it off. “I haven’t done anything special,” he says. “Anyone would do it.”

Harry is quiet for a moment. He’s pale despite the rich meal, his hands fidgeting with the dishes and with each other.

“Tell you what,” Louis says at last. “I’ll wash, you can dry.”

Harry smiles faintly. “Fair enough,” he says.

They stand side by side at the sink, and it’s comfortable in a weirdly familiar way. Louis can’t count how many times they’d stood like this, before, chatting about nothing or just in easy companionable silence. But now the silence feels heavy and tense. It feels like waiting.

He scrubs three plates before he finally speaks. “Do you want me to ask, or do you just not want to talk?”

Silence. He rinses the plate and hands it off, not looking up. He starts on the silverware. “I don’t want to press,” he says carefully. “And I’m not judging. But if you want to talk about what happened…” He shrugs.

He waits a moment, but Harry still doesn’t speak. He wants to look over, wants to see if he looks nervous or surprised or upset, but he doesn’t dare. He hands over the silverware and moves on to the glasses.

“We fought,” Harry says after a full minute, and Louis nearly drops the glass he’s working on. He fumbles to cover his startlement, schooling his face to neutrality. Harry’s voice is soft, almost rough around the edges. He swallows loud enough for Louis to hear before he continues, the words getting faster as he almost stumbles over them. “I forgot to do the laundry, even though I promised him I would do it two days ago, but then I was hungover and I forgot, and he was mad because he was out of socks and I was rude, I told him not to be such a baby about it, he could use mine, and he, well. Hit me.”

Louis can’t stop himself from wincing at the words. It wasn’t like it hadn’t been clear, but it’s different to hear it said aloud – and to hear Harry be so matter-of-fact about it.

“He apologized, of course,” Harry continues, quick and nervous. “He said he didn’t mean to, offered to get ice and painkillers. He felt so bad about it.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Louis didn’t mean to speak, didn’t mean to interrupt Harry’s words, but he can’t help himself. He can’t bear to hear Harry excusing the dark bruises that streak across his face, excusing the man that put them there.

Harry freezes at the disruption, silent for a long moment. “What do you mean?” he asks at last.

“Sorry,” Louis says. “I didn’t mean to cut you off, but just – it’s not okay, what he did. Apologizing doesn’t make it okay.”

Harry frowns. “I know,” he says, though the uncertainty in his voice belies the words. “But he just gets so angry sometimes, and it’s hard. We have to be careful. He can’t help it.”

“He can,” Louis says. “He can and he has to. And if he can’t, then it’s his responsibility to take steps for that too. To make sure he doesn’t take out his issues on other people.”

Harry still doesn’t look convinced. It breaks Louis heart, to see him trying to justify Xander’s actions, defend Xander’s love. He deserves better.

“Is this the first time?” Louis asks after a moment. “That he’s hurt you?”

Harry’s hand rises almost unconsciously, rubbing at his left shoulder. “Not exactly,” he says.

Louis feels sick. He doesn’t want to know, but he needs to know, but it’s not his place to ask. He bites his tongue and swallows down bile. “If he were sorry, wouldn’t he have stopped?” he asks. “Wouldn’t he have tried to make sure it never happened again?”

There’s still an uncertainty in Harry’s eyes, but it no longer feels directed at Louis. He’s not doubting Louis’ words; he’s doubting everything else he thought he knew. At least, Louis hopes so.

He wants to reach out and touch him, just to remind Harry that he’s here and to remind himself that Harry is here, but he doesn’t. He’s afraid it will shatter the moment, splinter the fragment of possibility that they’re so close to.

He turns his attention back to the pan he’s been scrubbing mindlessly for the past few minutes, and which is definitely clean, and keeps scrubbing.

But he has one more question. One more thing he has to know.

“What changed?” he asks softly. “If this wasn’t the first time, but it’s the first time you left?

Harry glances up at him, then away. “It’s the first time I had somewhere to go.”

It’s not true. Louis wants to tell him that, wants to remind him of how many people would have been more than wiling to help, to take him in, to protect him. But he suspects he’s already shaken Harry’s worldview enough for one day. Harry is here. He’s safe. That’s enough for now.

~*~

_So random question_

_Do any of you by any chance have a spare guest room? Or like know someone looking for a roommate_

_It’s kind of urgent_

Louis has managed to focus on work for nearly two hours, but the uncertainty keeps creeping in, and he finally can’t resist sending a message to Zayn, Niall, and Liam. He hasn’t mentioned it to Harry, but he wants to find him an out. If he wants to take it. He wants to show him he’s not alone.

Niall is the first to reply. **Did something happen to your place?**

_No, I’m fine,_ Louis quickly replies. _It’s for a friend_

Zayn replies next. **_By a friend do you mean a Harry_**

**Are you sure that’s a good idea**

**_Calm down Niall_ **

_Zayn is right you need to calm down_

_and also that it’s about Harry_

**Louis…**

_If you don’t approve then find him another place to live because right now he’s at mine_

**LOUIS**

_Xander hit him_

**What**

**_What_ **

_Yeah_

**Fuck Louis I’m so sorry**

**I was wrong and I’m so glad you didn’t listen to me**

_It’s fine_

**It’s really not**

_You’re fine. The situation is not._

**_We’ll figure something out. You don’t have to save him alone._ **

“Whatcha doing?”

Louis almost drops his phone as Harry pokes his head into the office. “Hey Harry,” he says, trying to seem nonchalant. “Just checking in with a client. How’s your afternoon?”

“Quiet,” Harry says. “I might have reorganized your kitchen. A little.”

Louis laughs. “That’s fine,” he says. “I can never find anything anyways.”

Harry perches on the corner of Louis’ desk, staring off into space for a moment. “It’s funny,” he says. “Xander always told me I didn’t need to work, that he’d take care of things – take care of me – but… I miss it, sometimes.”

Louis’ heart flips in his chest. “Miss _Generation_ or miss working?”

“I don’t know. Both, maybe.” Harry shrugs. “I miss feeling like a part of something. Having a goal that meant something.”

Louis nods. “I can relate to that.”

Harry smiles at him. “You could never be content to just laze around, could you?” His voice is affectionate, but there’s something threading underneath, something wistful and sharp at the same time. “You’re always looking for the next adventure.”

Louis can’t tell if the comment is a judgment directed at him or at Harry – or if it’s just innocent, just a comment. It’s so much harder to read Harry now; he’s gone from being an open book to a language Louis barely recognizes. They might not have always been on the same page, before, but they were always on the same side.

Louis is so tired of feeling like he’s on another side. He’s so tired of feeling like just talking is fighting, so tired of fighting himself. He’s so tired.

“You weren’t just the next adventure,” he says.

Silence. Louis can’t tell what that means. Maybe Harry doesn’t believe him. Maybe Harry doesn’t miss him. Maybe Harry just has no idea what he’s talking about.

“I wasn’t interesting enough to keep you around,” Harry says at last. The words are more breath than voice, almost inaudible but Louis will always listen to anything Harry has to say.

“It was only for a little while,” Louis says. “I would have come back.”

Harry laughs, the sound bitter and sad. “You’ve been gone _six_ _months_ ,” he says. “We were only together for half that time. Who does that?”

“People who are-”

Louis stops himself. It’s stupid. This is stupid. _He’s_ stupid.

“People who are what?”

He’s stupid, but he’s so, so tired of dancing around the truth, of trying to protect himself or Harry or anyone else. “People who are in love,” he says. “Long distance is hard, but we’d be far from the first to try it.”

There’s a pause. Louis still doesn’t dare look at Harry, but he swears he heard a tiny intake of breath when he said the L-word.

 “Were you?”

There’s a plaintiveness in Harry’s voice, hope and fear and longing and uncertainty all mixed together, and Louis can’t help but look up at him. His eyes hold the same mix of emotions, a slight shine of dampness over them but a softness in his face. _Were you?_ his eyes ask again. _Were you in love?_

“No,” Louis says. “I am.”

He means it. It might be stupid, it might be too late, but he means it. He loves him.

Harry’s gasp is choked off in a sob halfway through. He presses his hands to his mouth, tears slipping from his eyes to slide down his cheeks.

Louis should keep his distance. He should let Harry be, should resist the temptation to comfort him, hold him, stroke his hair.

Louis is so tired of _should_ s.

He stands, enveloping Harry in a hug. Harry buries his face in Louis shoulder, and Louis can feel him breathe in, then exhale in a shuddering sigh. His own eyes flutter shut as he inhales the citrus scent of Harry’s body wash, mixed with the musky scent that is all his own.

“ _Why?_ ” Harry says after a moment, and at first Louis thinks he means why does he love him and he can’t even count the number of reasons, from his kindness to his determination to his unapologetic excitement to his terrible jokes to the way his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth when he’s thinking...

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Louis is startled. “You didn’t let me,” he says. “You acted like leaving the city meant leaving you, like it was a done deal.”

“You seemed so excited to go,” Harry says. “It felt like – one second we were talking about moving in, and then next you were talking about moving to the other side of the country, like you couldn’t wait to leave.”

“But I-” Louis cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I’m an idiot.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he says. “To me they were the same thing. I wanted you to have the apartment.”

Harry’s eyes widen, his hands slipping off Louis’ shoulders. “You – what?”

“I wanted you to move here,” Louis says. “Officially, that is – because let’s be honest, you spent more nights here than at your place. It only made sense; otherwise you’d practically have to move _back_ when I flew out. I wanted this to be your home. I wanted to know that when I came back to visit, my home would be there waiting.”

Harry kisses him.

It’s not like the previous times Harry has come on to him, not sloppy or seductive, not a stranger in Harry’s body. It’s just _Harry_ , just love, just soft and sweet and real and everything Louis has missed so fucking much these past months without him.

His breath catches and he can’t think, completely caught off guard, but his body has never needed direction to respond to Harry. His hands slide along Harry’s back, pushing up under his shirt, feeling the soft curve of his spine and the warmth of his skin. He presses Harry against the desk, nipping at his bottom lip and feeling Harry arch under his touch. He can’t _breathe_ with the wanting, but he doesn’t want to, not when Harry’s hands are digging into his shirt and his tongue is in his mouth and the very idea of space between them has vanished into nothing.

Louis wants him in every single possible way, wants him completely and forever.

“I love you,” he whispers between breaths. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

“I know,” Harry whispers. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“Only if you won’t.”

Louis realizes he’s crying as he pulls away, realizes Harry’s cheeks are streaked with tears of his own, and he doesn’t know whether they’re tears of happiness or pain. Maybe a little of each.

“I wish…”

Louis trails off, biting his lip. Harry brushes a tear from his cheek. “What?”

“I wish we could go back,” Louis says. “I wish we could pretend like the last eight months never happened.”

It’s a wish he’s thought more times than he can count, all through his time in California and more than he cares to admit since he’s come home.

“Can’t we?” Harry murmurs, his mouth hovering over Louis. “I want to forget too.”

It’s everything Louis had dreamed of, and it’s just enough to remind him why they can’t.

At least not yet.

It takes a truly Herculean effort to pull away from the promise of Harry’s lips, but Louis manages it. “A lot has happened,” he says. “A lot has changed.”

“Not the important parts.” Harry squeezes Louis hand, like he’s afraid it’s going to turn to mist in his grip, and Louis smiles.

“There is that,” he says. “At least… well.” He hopes it hasn’t changed. But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

“At least what?”

Louis sighs. “What would you do if I’d moved on?” he asks. The questions feels brutal, and he can’t even imagine a scenario in which it would be true, a world in which he doesn’t love Harry, but he has to ask it. “What would you do if I was here for you as a friend, but nothing more?”

“I don’t – what?”

“What do you want to do?” Louis asks. “What were your plans when you came here?”

“I… didn’t have any,” Harry says. “I just… I needed to leave. To get away for a bit.”

“A bit?”

Harry tenses. “No – yes – I don’t know.”

Louis holds perfectly still, trying to school his face into careful neutrality as he asks, “Do you want to go back?” The question feels like acid in his mouth, and he’d almost rather burn off his tongue than ask it, but he has to. “I’m not judging, I’m just – asking.”

“I don’t know,” Harry says again. “He’s been – good to me. Helpful. Kind.” He shakes his head. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s hypothetical. I’m here. I’d rather be here any day.”

Louis sighs. “You can’t _stay_ here, though,” he says.

Harry’s face falls. “But – you said-”

“I said I’ll here for you,” Louis says. “And I will. But as a _friend._ I think that’s what you need most right now. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think I can be just your friend if you’re staying here.”

He can see the words hit Harry, can see the way his breath catches and his eyes widen, hope sparking inside them in a way Louis hasn’t seen in ages. He wants to see that spark catch, wants to see Harry’s eyes glow the way they always used to.

“You’ve had a rough few months,” he says. “And I wish more than anything I could take that away. I wish I could have stopped it sooner, or stopped it from happening at all.”

“Not your fault.”

“Maybe not.” It is a little bit, Louis wants to say, but he doesn’t want to argue. His fault or not, he’ll always feel guilty. “But the fact of the matter is… you need to heal from that first. You need to figure out who you are now. I can’t be your detox from the thing you used to detox from me. I can’t be your re-rebound.”

Harry is silent for a long moment. Louis feels the weight of his gaze, the weight of the moment, and it’s crushing him. He only hopes Harry can understand, hopes he isn’t breaking him all over again.

At last, Harry nods. “You’re right,” he says. “But – what do I do, then? I don’t – I can’t go back to the apartment. It’s too…” He trails off, wincing. “It isn’t really mine anymore.”

That at least is a problem Louis can solve. “We’ll find you a place,” he says. “Whether that’s finding a new apartment or staying with a friend. We’ll make it work.”

Harry looks at his hands. “I don’t really have very many friends anymore,” he says. “Just Xander.”

Louis’ heart aches. “I think you’ll find a lot of your friends are right where you left them,” he says softly. “They just didn’t know how to reach you anymore.”

Harry nods slowly, his face saying that he doesn’t know if he believes Louis, but he trusts him. That’ll do for now.

“And then?” Harry asks. “When – when there’s more distance? You said we can’t be together, but – there’s still a chance, right? You’re not – you still-”

“God, yes.” The words almost fall out of him. “I want – more than I can possibly say. But not at your expense. Not at the expense of the future – of, I hope, _our_ future. Not until you’re ready.”

Harry nods. “Thank you,” he says. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The words hang between them for a moment, and Louis can tell that they’re both remembering the time Louis said those words – about two months into the relationship, lying next to each other in Harry’s bed for once. Louis had just told him about his plans to leave _Generation_ to start his own freelance web design company, and Harry had been so supportive.

“I’ll miss having you around the office, of course,” Harry had said. “But I’m so proud of you. Anyone would be lucky to hire you.”

“You’re not – jealous? Or worried? It’s going to change things.”

“It won’t change anything that matters. It won’t change the way I feel about you.” Louis can still remember the way Harry’s hand brushed softly across Louis’ face. “You’re going to do amazing things, babe. I know it. I can’t wait.”

Louis echoes the words now. “I can’t wait.”

~*~

It takes time. Harry winds up on Liam's sofa bed, and Zayn pulls a few strings to get him a job back at  _Generation_. He has to start lower than he was, but he's worked his way up before, and he tells them all he's just glad to be back.

They all go over a few days later to pick up his things. Xander isn't there, thankfully - Harry says he's at work - but Louis is still on edge, half-expecting him to come back at any moment. Between the five of them, they have everything Harry needs packed up in a few short hours. It's probably not all his stuff, but he doesn't need all of it - doesn't want all of it.

At one point, Louis finds him standing at the doorway to the bathroom, staring at the bottles of shampoo and soap that line the tub. "It's funny," Harry says, turning to look at Louis. "Xander always used this awful cinnamon shampoo - I couldn't stand it, hated the stuff. But he always tried to get me to use it. Thought my stuff was too fruity." He laughs, though there's no humor in it.

Louis doesn't laugh. "It smells like you," he says. "He shouldn't get to take that away."

"I never realized how much he went after even the little things," Harry says. "The art I decorated with, the music I listened to, the way I did my hair."

Louis bites his tongue. He hates hearing about it, hates seeing all the ways Xander tried to tear down the Harry he loves and replace him with some shiny Ken-doll version that catered precisely to Xander's tastes. It makes him feel nauseated, but he can see how freeing it is to Harry to reclaim all the pieces of himself that Xander had tried to teach him to hate.

The first time he sees Harry humming along to Shania Twain, he almost cries.

They hang out fairly often. Louis will drop by the office or visit him at Liam's, and Harry always comes to Tuesday nights. He doesn't drink, though; tells them he's had enough of that for a while. They suggest some other Tuesday activity, but Harry insists he doesn't want to change their tradition. Sometimes one or another or even all of them will stay sober with him, but other times they're perfectly content to let him laugh at their inebriated discoordination. 

Harry starts therapy, at Liam's insistence. "You've been through a traumatic experience," he says. "Even if you don't always feel like it, even if you think you're okay now - you're more than likely going to have to work through some of the stuff that it did to you sooner or later. And maybe some of the stuff that got you into it in the first place."

What surprises Louis most is that he keeps running into Harry at the gym.

"I eat Frosted Flakes now," Harry tells him when he asks, running side by side on treadmills. "I'll have chocolate ice cream when I want it, but I also do like some of the veggie stir fries and things I've learned to make. And I do like working out. I'm not sure how to explain it."

Louis nods beside him. "Not everything that comes out of a bad time has to be bad," he says. "As long as you're being careful."

"I am," Harry says. "And Niall helps with it. That boy can eat anything."

Louis laughs. "He probably has, too."

"What about you?" Harry asks. "Why do you still exercise?"

Louis is quiet for a moment. "I guess... it was a distraction," he says at last. "It was the only time I could forget. The only time I didn't feel trapped by the past. Now it's almost comforting."

Harry nods. "I think it's similar for me," he says. "Though different. It’s like… even when I was hurting, working out still felt good. Sometimes it was the only thing.”

They keep running in comfortable silence, listening to the steady rhythm of pounding feet and gasping breaths.

The more Louis watches, the more he can see Harry returning to the person he'd known. He's not the same, not by a long shot - his defined muscles and lean physique stays for the most part, though softened, and he's nervous sometimes about the things he cares about. But he's not a stranger anymore. He's Harry.

~*~

Louis is waiting outside when Harry gets off work. He's carrying a handful of flowers, freshly picked from the park, and he hands them to a beaming Harry. "How was work?" he asks, linking his arm through Harry's as they set off down the street.

"Work was good," Harry says, his face buried in the flowers. "I started a new article on youth involvement in political campaigns. Got to talk to a bunch of incredible young people who are volunteering and fundraising and campaigning and even running for office."

"Sounds like a good day."

"It was." Harry smiles. "You?"

"Also a good day," Louis says. "I finally got the code to work on that new widget - it looks even better than I hoped."

Harry's smile grows wider, and Louis' grows with it.

They chat like that, about various subjects, making their way down the street to a particular coffee shop. The coffee shop where they had their first date, nearly a year ago now.

When they reach it, Louis moves to open the door, but Harry stops him. Louis turns. "What is it?"

"Before we go in," Harry says, fidgeting with his shirt. "Would you - that is, can we - would it be okay if-"

"Harry. Love. Calm down." Louis' hand is soft on Harry's arm. "It's okay. What are you trying to ask?"

Harry stares at the ground a moment longer, then raises his head, a fire of determination in his eyes. "Kiss me," he says. "It's been so long-"

Louis doesn't need to be asked twice. He steps forward, closing the distance between them easily, and melts into Harry's touch, so familiar and warm and comfortable and perfect in every way. They fit, like they belong together, like they were made for each other.

When they break apart, Louis slips his hand into Harry's, squeezing gently. Harry squeezes back, his face soft and almost glowing.

"To new beginnings," he whispers, opening the door of the coffee shop. 

 

 

 


End file.
